


Unbound

by Verayne



Series: Time Lords Victorious [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: BDSM, Doctor POV, M/M, Omg there was only one bed, Smut, Unreliable Narrator, because seriously, despite evidence definitely not Established Relationship, does it require a tw for the Master being racist against the entire human species, the Doctor has a paradox phobia, the Master has abandonment issues, they both kind of do, they're way too dumb and anxious for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23376640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verayne/pseuds/Verayne
Summary: When their first attempt at travelling together goes promptly awry and leaves them stranded - again - the Doctor and the Master need to figure out what exactly went wrong. Easier said than done.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Series: Time Lords Victorious [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681309
Comments: 160
Kudos: 366





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Still being written, so forgive me if I'm a bit slower with updates than previously, but I thought I'd start posting earlier than usual as we all sit in quarantine looking for new things to read :) Enjoy. 
> 
> Warnings:
> 
> The tag is jokey, but in all seriousness the Master comes with his own set of warnings: canon-level species bigotry, slightly more than canon-level violence, and psychic abilities used as weapons/invasively. 
> 
> Kink warning for overall BDSM dynamic, including rough sex, pain play, choking/breathplay, and orgasm denial. 
> 
> Regarding sex scenes, one theme explored throughout this is consent, and how their dynamic comes right up against the edge of that. To be clear, nothing ever crosses over into non-con, but I did want to include the idea of control/choice being taken away and how that can bring its own kind of relief. Definitely not playing by the 'safe' rules of BDSM, and it's a purposeful choice not to have them use safewords, negotiations, etc, because I genuinely think they're far too feral around each other for that kind of forethought (I'm not advocating it as a good thing).

"I think we should set some ground rules."

The Master immediately swung an incredulous look at him, stilling in his restless circling of the control room. He raised his eyebrows, mildly affronted. "What are we, twelve? Why would we need 'ground rules'?"

The Doctor kept his eyes trained on the navigation screen in front of him. His hands moved quickly over the control panel, manipulating the transtemporal engines to guide them through the Vortex. "You know exactly why."

"What kind of ground rules?"

He lifted a shoulder, aiming somewhat unsuccessfully for nonchalant. "Well. How about... no murdering anyone?"

The Master barked a quick laugh. "Subtle." He wandered closer, footsteps shuddering the metal grating beneath them. "So just rules for _me_ then, I see."

Caught off guard, the Doctor glanced up and found himself pinned by a steady stare. The other Time Lord lounged with his hip braced against the console, arms folded, practically radiating challenge.

"I... No. Not just you, for both of us."

"Oh okay. So if I want to set the rule 'The Doctor is not in charge,' you'd be open to that, would you?"

He frowned, then nodded stiffly. "Fine. How about... no establishing ourselves ruler of any local civilizations?"

The Master stared at him, motionless, and then a slow smile curled his mouth. His eyes glittered with sharp amusement. "Fine. No lecturing."

"No weapons."

"Nothing boring."

"Nothing dangerous."

"Really?"

The Doctor hesitated, realising he'd probably overreached. "No, nevermind, forget that one. No being cruel."

The Master held out his hands magnanimously. "Would you like to just write me a script? Seems easier."

He deflated slightly. "Sorry. I'm just -"

"Controlling and pedantic, yes, but I knew that when I suggested this doomed venture." He eased off the control panel, circling round behind the Doctor and leaning up to peer over his shoulder. "Stop worrying. Land this thing, I want to look at something _new_. We'll sort your precious ground rules as we go."

That was exactly what worried him, but he supposed it was the best he was going to get. He cast a glance over the controls under his hands. He'd set the destination to random, with a few exclusionary parameters (no sites of active warfare, political upheaval, natural disasters, civil unrest, Earth locations, or Sundays) and he watched as the TARDIS slowly narrowed in on a date and location.

The Master hummed sceptically. "Hm, no, looks boring. That's against the ground rules, isn't it?"

He sighed. "Just give it a chance. It's only a test run anyway, we'll go somewhere else if we really hate it." In truth, he was fervently hoping for boring. Boring was at least safe. His nerves were already wrecked at the thought of willingly releasing the Master back into the universe, he at least wanted to do it in a more easily controlled environment. Maybe he shouldn't have excluded Sundays, come to think of it.

It wasn't that he hadn't _meant_ it, when he'd agreed to this tentative attempt to travel together. It was just that the reality was so much more terrifying. During their sabbatical away from the universe, it had been easy to forget the very real danger the Master posed to anyone he encountered. He'd been a threat to the Doctor, of course, but that was negligible. Now, though, anything he did to hurt another person or planet would be entirely the Doctor's responsibility. He'd chosen to free him, for selfish fear of the alternative, knowing full well what could happen. He supposed it was at least a shade better than leaving the other Time Lord to go off on his own, to do as he pleased entirely without mediation.

As though conscious of his train of thought, the Master propped his chin up on the Doctor's shoulder, almost purring at him. "Try and unclench a bit. I'll be on best behaviour. Promise."

He frowned again, realising he had no real choice but to accept that for the time being.

The TARDIS shuddered around them as it phased out of the Vortex, and he quickly moved to manipulate the controls to help her land. The ship shook hard as it bumped into reality, and both Time Lords grabbed at the console for balance, waiting for it to settle. As soon as it did the Master immediately bounded away from him, excited by the prospect of freedom. He clapped his hands once, then held out his arms theatrically as he strode for the door.

"Let's _go_ , Doctor, or I'm leaving without you!"

"You and what time machine..." the Doctor muttered, carefully quiet, but wasted no time ensuring all brakes and safety measures were in place before he hurried after the Master. He grabbed both their coats from where they'd been thrown over one of the coral struts, shoving the Master's at him as he joined him, and throwing his own familiar brown trenchcoat over his own shoulders. He absently patted down his pockets, ensuring he had everything they might need, and then took a steadying breath as they stood together in front of the door. He gestured. "Want to do the honours?"

The Master rolled his eyes, but stepped forward and reached for the door, throwing it open with a triumphant look on his face.

The Doctor kept his eyes on the other Time Lord as they stepped out. Even with his lingering concerns, he had to smile watching the Master's visible joy at finally leaving the TARDIS. He sucked in lungfuls of oxygen, arms upheld over his head in a full-body stretch, then relaxed his whole self in a dramatic slump. He was grinning, cheeks dimpled charmingly, boyish and happy. He swung one way and then the other, trying to take in all the new details around them in a single sweeping glance. His enthusiasm was infectious; the Doctor felt it as a giddy rush of warmth in his own chest. More than anything he wanted to join him in the moment; wanted to laugh and take his hand and bask in vicarious euphoria.

He didn't. He still wasn't sure that was acceptable in whatever tentative, newfound understanding they'd come to. It probably wasn't.

Tearing his gaze away, he turned his attention instead to the surroundings the Master was so busy admiring. They appeared to have landed on the edge of a crowded street, stepping out into a stream of people bustling past in both directions. He had to sidestep quickly to avoid colliding with a human woman in a wide-brimmed, dramatically plumed hat. Attention momentarily caught by the headpiece, he circled round to watch her hurry past, noting as she went the bustled skirt and corseted waist of her dress. A man with tophat and cane coming in the other direction caught him staring, frowned with disapproval. Apologetic, the Doctor quickly stood on tiptoes to peer over the heads of the crowd at the nearest buildings, trying to get his bearings in terms of where and when they might be.

It was cold, the glitter of frost on the pale, soot-stained stone walls around them. The sky was the white-grey of winter, cut through with columns of dark factory smoke above the clustered rooftops. Inhaling, he was overwhelmed by the universal smell of city grime: oil and refuse and food and polluted water and drainage and too many bodies packed into a space like it was civilised. It had been a while, but he'd grown long familiar with that smell over the years.

Sinking realisation started in his stomach. "Wait, this is -"

At the same moment, the Master turned to glare at him. "Why did you bring me to -"

" _Earth_?!" they finished together, equally unhappy about the development.

The Doctor shook his head as he took a few uncertain steps forward, dodging out of the way as another woman with a rickety perambulator almost barrelled into him. "No, no, no, this isn't right. This is a mistake, I _specifically_ set the TARDIS to avoid Earth, we shouldn't be here."

The Master scoffed. "Of course you did. God knows I can't be trusted for a moment around humans, right?"

Well frankly no, the Doctor thought to himself but knew better than to voice aloud. He ignored the question, waving the other man back towards the TARDIS. "Look, sorry, I must have set it wrong. Get back in, we'll -"

He was cut off by the sudden high-pitched whine of the temporal engines. He froze for a second in surprise, bemused by the sight of the TARDIS fading partially from view as it started to phase.

Fear kicked him back into motion, hearts constricting in his chest. "No!" He threw himself forward, shoving at the humans in his way, scrambling back towards the ship. "Stop her!"

The Master was closer and got to the door first, slamming against it as he fought to get it open. It didn't budge, the engines even rising in pitch as though fighting to keep him out. The Doctor crashed against the door seconds later, shouldering him aside to try the handle himself, hoping wildly it was only barred to the Master. It didn't move as he shoved against it; if anything the TARDIS screeched in even greater protest, engines grinding warningly as it phased almost entirely from view beneath his hands.

"Don't you dare!"

He managed to get his key out, fumbling it quickly into the lock. There was a wicked flash as the TARDIS defences activated, throwing him backwards like an electrical current had gone through him. He fell against the Master, who just about kept him upright with an impatient shove as the Doctor stared down at his numbed hand in betrayal. The key had been rejected as well, glowing faintly with heat on the ground in front of him.

"No, _no_! You can't - you can't just leave!"

But the TARDIS took utterly no notice of him, fading entirely with a final discontent whine. They stood in stunned, breathless silence, staring uselessly at the spot where the blue police box had stood not a minute before. Some dust settled from the updraft of displacement.

He dragged a hand down over his mouth, curled it into a fist against his teeth. "...Oh, this went spectacularly wrong _way_ quicker than I expected."

Next to him, the Master tipped his head in consideration. "Not boring, at least."

* * *

"What the hell was that?"

The Doctor shook his head helplessly, no answers to give. They moved through the crowd, walking aimlessly, at an abrupt and distinct loss without the TARDIS or any real purpose or destination.

"Well why did it just _leave_ us here? Wait, where even _is_ here?" The Master stopped in his tracks, apparently to better communicate his incredulous disgust at their newfound surroundings. He glanced around them, eyes scanning swiftly over a horse and carriage clattering past; cast-iron arc lamps lining the pavement; the soot-stained limestone buildings. He spun round again like he was trying to track the moving chaos, then made a sudden dart for a nearby newspaper stand, snatching the top one from the hands of the vendor with a warning flash of teeth that was anything but friendly. He spent less that a second examining the front page, before all but hurling it at the Doctor in sudden fury. "Oh you have _got_ to be kidding me. _1890_?!"

The Doctor winced, checking the date for himself atop the broadsheet. November 11th, 1890, London. He understood the Master's frustration in an instant. Without access to the TARDIS, they were left without technology, resources, any real methods of communication, even effective transport. They had only what he'd hurriedly stuffed in his pockets before leaving the ship.

He reaching up to tug an earlobe in thought. "Okay, 1890. I mean. There were worse years. London Underground opened this year. Royal Baccarat Scandal, that was fun. Ooh, Agatha Christie was just born, I met her once, she was -"

" _Why_ would your traitorous bitch of a ship strand us in 18-fucking-90?!"

"Oi, name calling!" The Master took a step towards him, infuriated, so he quickly skipped backwards out of reach, turning his attention to the street. "There must be something here. I _specifically_ programmed her to avoid Earth, I know I did, so the fact she came anyway..." But what? Had something pulled them in? He couldn't see anything particularly out of the ordinary at first glance, couldn't sense any danger. The strangest thing in the vicinity was _them_ , out of place in their 21st Century suits and drawing increasingly concerned looks from the humans around them as they argued.

He pulled the sonic screwdriver from his pocket, adjusting the settings and then holding it up to scan the airwaves, muttering speculatively to himself as he did so. "And why leave? A signal she didn't like, maybe? Forcefields? No, wouldn't have got in..." He checked the scan, frowned at the lack of results, and walked further out into the open for better coverage, activating the sonic again. "A trap, do you think? Did we -"

The Master's hand closed hard around his arm, hauling him backwards off the cobbled street just in time for another hansom cab to crash past, the driver cursing him for an idiot as he went. The Master's glare burning into the side of his head as he staggered against him said he agreed wholeheartedly.

The Doctor straightened slowly, clearing his throat. "...Thanks."

"So that's what you needed all those human pets for. _Guide dogs_."

He narrowed his eyes briefly at the other Time Lord in wordless exasperation, sighing, but there were more pressing concerns than the Master's customary disdain of the other species. The Doctor again surveyed their surroundings, somewhat at a loss.

The Master shook his head, eyebrows up. "Go on then, now what? You're the intrepid traveller, this must be an average weekday for you. What do you usually do?"

The Doctor looked back at him with a growing sense of unease, realising that for once he wasn't exactly sure. He had to assume they were stuck here, at least until they had some idea of what had caused the TARDIS to abandon them. And while it wasn't exactly the first time he'd been stranded somewhere in Earth's history, it was the first time without a human companion to advise him on the mundane practicalities of that. Where did you get food, shelter, information in Victorian London? It wasn't something he'd ever had to consider before. An instinctive sense of time told him it would be dark within the next thirty minutes, the chill November temperature dropping even further with the lack of light, and they'd have to get inside somewhere.

"Uhm..."

The Master gave a hard, tight smile. "One job. You have _one_ job..." Incredulous, he turned on his heel and took off purposefully down the street like he knew remotely where he was going.

The Doctor scrambled to follow.

* * *

They found a nearby public house, the golden light from the windows and the susurrus of voices a welcoming draw as night fell quickly around them.

Entering, they practically stepped into a wall of sensory input. Heat, noise, light, the smell of beer and smoke and cooking meat. Humans chattered loudly in every corner of the room, packed in tight. The Time Lords reeled somewhat, both slightly stunned after so long existing in the isolation of the TARDIS.

"See - this! Look at all of this!" the Doctor enthused, recovering first. "This is exactly the kind of place I wanted to show you."

The Master smiled tightly, surveying the disarray. "Thanks, I hate it."

Not to be deterred, the Doctor strode forward into the press of the crowd, shooting a grin over his shoulder to check the Master was following. They wound their way round patrons and tables, the Doctor spinning occasionally as he went, distracted by snippets of bawdy conversation or the spectacle of a card game. The Master quickly got impatient and pushed past him to get to the bar first, spreading his hands wide across the surface and immediately commanding most of the attention of those near him.

"Whiskey. Just... all of the whiskey."

The bartender paused in wiping up a puddle of spilled beer, turning to raise his eyebrows at the demand. He flicked a sceptical glance over the Time Lord, frowning as though not quite sure how to judge his unusual appearance next to those of his other customers. "Pricey drink," he warned.

The Doctor stepped up quickly beside him, leaning down to whisper urgently, "Yeah, we have no money."

The Master heaved an exhausted sigh, sliding a glare across at him. "Of course we don't, that might make some part of this remotely tolerable, couldn't have that... Oh, _fine_." He braced himself, turned back to the dubious bartender, and gestured sharply with two fingers to command eye contact. "Hey. Right here, big man. _We're visiting dignitaries. I could shut this place down with one bad mood. You're going to make us feel as welcome as you're able, yes?_ "

The Doctor's mouth dropped open as he felt the psychic force in the words, the Master's hypnotism a bludgeon instead of the usual finessed art. Scandalised, he grasped the other man's arm. "You can't do that to them, they've... they've got no defences."

The Master shook him off, dismissive. "I know, it's their only redeeming feature. Whiskey?!"

The bartender jumped. "Course, sir! I'll have our best malt brought up for you. On the house, obviously, you shan't pay a penny long as you're staying, I'll see to it myself."

The Master smiled, pleased with himself, and settled on a barstool as the human slouched off. Resigned, the Doctor sat down next to him, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "You can't just do things like that."

"Why not? Not against the ground rules, is it?" He shrugged and flashed a smug smile. When the Doctor only continued to look unimpressed, he rolled his eyes disdainfully. "Oh, what. What else was I supposed to do? Rely on _the kindness of strangers_ , I suppose?"

"Usually works for me..." he muttered.

"Yes, you're just a regular Blanch DuBois, aren't you." Exhaling scornfully, the Master turned his attention instead to the room around them, expression closed off. Hazel eyes moved disinterestedly over the clusters of humans at the tables, reflecting back the shifting light from candles and oil lamps and the lit fireplace opposite him. His fingers tapped out the beat of the drums with increasing force against the surface of the bar, the only betrayal of his agitation. The Doctor sighed as he noticed, pushing down the urge to reach out and still his hand. Comfort was rarely appreciated even in the best of circumstances, and this was far from the right time or place to make an attempt.

The clink of glasses and the heavy thud of a full bottle being placed in front of them recaptured his attention, and the Master spun back around with a gleeful rub of his palms. With their physiology, it took a lot of sustained effort to intoxicate a Time Lord on human alcohol, but it seemed the other man had every intention of giving it his best shot as he enthusiastically uncorked the spirit and set about pouring a first drink.

"There are rooms here, right?" the Master asked abruptly, addressing the harassed looking bartender. He brought the glass to his mouth and sipped, peering over the rim expectantly.

"Aye, sir, although you might prefer -"

"No, right here will do nicely, I think, since my friend has his hearts set on 'slumming it'. Right, Doctor?"

The Doctor shared a pained look with the human, wincing mild apology. "If there's anything available..."

The bartender nodded hesitantly. "I can have a couple rooms made up for you both -"

"Make it the one," the Master spoke over him again. His eyes glittered with unpleasant humour, eyebrows raised in a dare. "One bed should be fine."

The Doctor aimed a pointed scowl across at him. He knew better than to think there was sentiment in the Master's request. It was done out of cruelty, if anything; his enjoyment was visible as he watched the human's psychically imposed desire to please them clash with ingrained cultural morals, practically grinning as the man struggled to frame an answer.

Realising his presence was likely making this little performance worse, the Doctor stood up from the barstool, nodding awkwardly to excuse himself. "Sorry. Won't be a minute." As he passed behind him, he leaned into the Master's space to hiss into his ear, " _Stop it_."

The other man only turned his amusement on him instead, winking obviously. "Hurry back, love."

Irritated, the Doctor ducked quickly away into the press of patrons, a number of whom were already shooting questioning looks between the two Time Lords. He needed a minute to himself already, to get his bearings, to process the building panic he could feel somewhere in the periphery of his mind. He'd known well enough that travelling with the Master would be a different experience entirely to being around previous companions, but already it was occurring to him that he may have underestimated the sheer chaotic lack of self-preservation, the unwillingness to conform to their current predicament. Not only was he going to have to figure out how to get his TARDIS back, he was going to have to make sure the other man didn't get them both killed before then.

There was a door at the back of the main room and he slipped swiftly through it, out into the alley behind the pub. The cold night air hit him and he breathed a sigh of temporary relief, closing his eyes for a second.

It had all gotten out of his control rather quickly, really. He'd wanted somewhere safe and quiet and unobjectionable for their first attempt at this; certainly not the planet they'd bitterly scrapped over for centuries, and which the Master would take no small amount of pleasure blowing holes in at the smallest provocation. Even if he was only sniping at the moment, that couldn't be expected to last. His mood would turn dangerous sooner or later. The Doctor needed to get them out of here as fast as he was able.

Bracing himself, he opened his eyes again. Posters pasted against the wall opposite caught his attention and he ambled over for a closer look, hands shoved in his pockets. He had a half-formed curiosity to see if they showed any unusual local events that might give him a clue about what had chased off his TARDIS - but there was nothing out of place. The schedule for a passing circus troupe (which he examined for anyone conspicuously alien, found nothing); a local theatre billing; an advertisement for loans of £5 and upwards, with a somewhat unscrupulous interest rate printed at the bottom; a ripped fragment on which the name 'Sherlock Holmes' could be read but nothing else. He followed along the line of posters with interest, peering at each in turn.

"You're not supposed to be here."

He turned at the unfamiliar voice, eyeing the girl who was hovering by the back door of the pub like she'd just stepped out, all big inquisitive doe eyes at finding him out here. He raised his eyebrows wryly in response to her comment, heaving a sigh. "Honestly, you have _no_ idea. Do you work here?"

"Barmaid," she chirped. She flicked a glance up and down him, mouth quirking. "And you're lost, mate."

The Doctor blinked in surprise, peering down at himself as well. "Is it that obvious? Yeah, I am a bit, I suppose." He glanced back over his shoulder, gesturing at the posters. "Sorry, I only stepped out here a minute, I was just looking at... at these things. Busy town. Lots happening."

She regarded him dubiously, which he supposed was fair. "Oh you're a sharp one, aren't you. That does tend to be London for you, yeah." Despite the sarcasm, she drifted over to stand beside him, tiny enough that he could see the very top of her head when he looked over at her. Hands perched on her hips, she frowned at the posters with him. "They're all wrong though. Wrong dates... Everything's the wrong date now, have you noticed?"

Feeling very much as though he'd rapidly lost the thread of this conversation - not impossible, although usually due to his own tangents, not often because he couldn't follow someone else's - he struggled for a moment to settle on an answer. "Uhm. Can't say I have, really. But then I've never been very precious about dates, to tell you the truth."

"Suppose." She pulled a thin shawl tighter around her shoulders against the chill, turning toward him with folded arms. "You're still not meant to be here. And your mate in there definitely isn't."

The Doctor winced, dreading to think what the Master had done in the brief minutes without supervision that had prompted her to come get him. "Sorry. I'll make sure he behaves. Well. Might be a bit ambitious, that. But we won't be here long, honest."

"If you say so. Best keep on Bob's good side though, yeah? 'Less you want a little extra in your drinks."

He smiled, somewhat uncertainly. She had an unusual manner about her, it occurred to him; spoke to him with odd familiarity. He studied her, trying to decide if they'd ever crossed timelines before. Pretty, petite, dark curls, and staring him down with bright, sharp intelligence he was sure he'd remember. He'd certainly never laid eyes on her before now.

"I'll just be..." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder as he backed up towards the door of the pub, walking backwards so he could frown curiously at her for another few seconds, unable to shake the feeling that she was amused by his lack of recognition.

"Oi, clever boy. Got a name?"

"The Doctor - uh. Doctor Smith. I mean John Smith."

She laughed lightly, arching an eyebrow at his apparent uncertainty. "Right. Glad you cleared that up. Run on then."

Nodding awkward goodbye, he turned and shoved back through the door. It was only when he was back inside and already halfway across the room that it occurred to him he was doing the rude thing again, and hadn't asked her name in return.

Making his way through the crowd back towards the bar, the Doctor stopped to stare in vague confusion at the sight he returned to. The two glasses on the bar were both full with amber liquid now, and as he watched in disbelief the Master and the human bartender each picked one up, clinked them together, and shot them back in unison. They were laughing about something, the Master raising a hand up over his mouth to stop himself spilling the drink in his mirth.

The Doctor trailed over, eyeing the other Time Lord curiously as he reclaimed his seat. "Feeling better, then?"

The Master flashed his teeth in a quick sharp smile, which the Doctor saw immediately wasn't genuine, upon closer examination. "Robert, here," the Master pointed at the human, "was just telling me about _import tax_. Isn't that _riveting_?"

The Doctor quirked an eyebrow at him in amused sympathy. Apparently the other man had already come to the same conclusion about playing nice, if only to maintain the integrity of the drinks being served to him.

"It's Bob, if you don't mind sir. And as I were saying, you and your... friend... are more than welcome at the _Rose & Crown_ for as long as you're in town."

The Master poured another generous glass of whiskey in response.

* * *

The moment they stepped into the cramped third-floor room they'd been gifted, the Master's affable demeanour dropped like a discarded mask. He stalked into the dim space, footsteps sharp on the uneven floorboards. Circled from one side of the narrow bed to the other, prowled restlessly towards where the ceiling sloped at a steep angle down one side of the room. He reached up to brace his hand against the low-hanging wooden beam above his head, glaring out through the warped glass of the tiny window. Moonlight framed his outline, silvering his hair. Barely suppressed energy radiated off him, visible in the line of his shoulders, his constant movement. A deadly thing, locked in the confines of four walls.

The Doctor leaned back against the closed door, watching cautiously, trying to decide how best to proceed. Looking at him now, he thought getting the Master to calm down should probably be first on his to do list. The Doctor was tired, confused, and no small amount freaked out himself, and he strongly suspected he was looking at the same combination of emotions in the other man - but with the Master, that was a far more volatile, hazardous situation to be around.

The Doctor shrugged out of his coat and jacket, moving to drape them over the back of the bare wooden chair nearby, starting to pull his tie loose. "We should get some sleep. We can start looking for what went wrong with the TARDIS in the morning." It was cold enough that his breath misted in the air slightly, the small fireplace in the room dark and unlit for some time. He shivered in just his shirt, longingly eyeing the heavy blankets across the bed.

The Master breathed a dismissive sound, not bothering to look at him. His attention seemed to have been caught by something outside, as he stepped closer to the slanted window and put his hand on the glass.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Just watching the vermin."

The Doctor blinked, taken aback by the unprovoked venom in the words.

The Master didn't seem to notice his silence, continuing with quiet, furious scorn. "It was bad enough trying to live on this filthy little planet in the 21st Century. At least they had television by then - and indoor plumbing! Here?! Look at all of this, it's disgusting. _Animals_." He sneered, shifting to cast an unhappy glance around the room. "I'm getting us somewhere better to stay tomorrow. Sure there's a nice townhouse somewhere that could be conveniently vacated. Hyde Park, that was all the rage around now, wasn't it?"

The Doctor winced slightly at the thought of the Master playing provider for them. He dreaded to think what exactly that would entail. Best case scenario was another flagrant abuse of his psychic abilities - he didn't want to consider the less peaceful options.

So he shook his head and tried to inject conviction into his voice as he commented, "Let's just stay here. I like it. Shouldn't be long anyway, we'll be back on the TARDIS in no time. Come on, get some sleep."

"I don't want to _sleep_."

"Well I do, it's freezing in here."

The Master finally turned at that, his gaze sharp with interest as it trailed pointedly over him. He moved away from the window, wandering closer, voice descending into a suggestive drawl. "I can fix that much, at least."

Tense and stressed and cold, the Doctor wasn't particularly in the mood for whatever exacting, punishing game the Master would dream up. He let out a heavy breath and started to shake his head, trying to step past him towards the bed. "No -"

Either the Master ignored or didn't notice his disinterest. He blocked his path, put his hands on the Doctor's waist and pushed him back against the wall with enough force to rattle a nearby pictureframe. Caught off guard, the Doctor flinched as his spine hit the panelling, hissing at pain he hadn't braced for. Unexpected temper flared in him and he turned his face away so the other man couldn't kiss him, but the Master didn't make the attempt. He tugged the hem of the Doctor's shirt from his belt, slid chill hands across his skin.

Annoyed, the Doctor shoved him back and sidestepped quickly out of reach. The Master fell back a step, staring at him in blank surprise. "What?"

He shook his head, jaw clenching. "I said no. Not tonight."

"Why?"

"I'm tired."

"Wh- Seriously? Got a headache as well? Need to wash your hair?"

He narrowed his eyes at the sarcasm.

The Master made a disbelieving sound, jerking his head. "Seriously! We've been here _five minutes_ and - what - suddenly you can't stand the thought?" He let out a sharp breath, and the Doctor saw his expression flicker - offended, hurt - before freezing into something glacial. "What's the matter, being around all these humans putting you in mind of better options?"

The Doctor sighed, briefly closing his eyes. "That's not what I said."

"Oh no, please, don't let me get in the way. We both know you never have before."

The Doctor opened his mouth helplessly, too bemused by the sudden accusation to know what to say. "I only meant..."

But the Master wasn't listening. He dragged his coat off in an infuriated flap of material, tossing it carelessly across the floor and stalking towards the bed, where he threw himself down on his back atop the covers, arms folded tight across his chest, ankles crossed, glaring at the ceiling.

The Doctor raised his eyebrows at the theatrics, and bleakly resigned himself to an uncomfortable, frigid few hours of pretending to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The Doctor came awake in utter confusion. It had been so long since he'd slept anywhere but his own room on the TARDIS that finding himself in an unfamiliar bed, breathing polluted planetary atmosphere, hearing the alien murmur of early morning workers on the street below his window, left him fumbling groggily to get his bearings. He looked down at himself, bemused to see he'd slept in most of his suit.

It all came back with the realisation that the Master was already gone from the room - and then he was promptly falling out of bed in his urgency, tripping as he tried to pull his shoes back on without pausing, hurtling out of the door and down the bareboard staircase. All he could think was that the Master had left him here, gone off on his own to do God knew what - run, maybe, or cause havoc across the city, the _planet_ , just for the fun of it. He was the Doctor's responsibility, and instead of stopping him he'd _slept_ while -

He practically tumbled into the downstairs barroom, in time for three pairs of startled eyes to turn on him. The bar owner, Bob, paused in wiping down a table to scowl disapprovingly at his abrupt entrance. A second barmaid he didn't recognise was busy mopping spilled drinks from the night before, a puddle forming at her feet as she stilled to look at him in surprise. From his spot perched on a stool at the bar, the Master cast him only a cursory glance, unimpressed, before turning back to the bowl of porridge he had in front of him.

The Doctor slumped with full-body relief, feeling the flight go out of him.

"...Get you anything?" Bob asked, still eyeing him dubiously.

"What? No. Thanks." Awkward under the attention, he shuffled further into the room, vainly trying to smooth down his shirt as he went. It was still early, the bar not yet open and no other guests present. He slid onto a stool next to the other Time Lord, planting his elbows on the bar and breathing a heavy sigh.

"Thought I'd ditched you, then," the Master surmised dryly, not looking at him. He trailed his spoon through the thin porridge, lip curled in distaste.

The Doctor hesitated, considering lying, before realising there was hardly any point. "...Yeah, pretty much. You could have woken me."

"Got hungry," the Master explained, unnecessarily. Then he wrinkled his nose, dropping his spoon back into the bowl. "Needn't have bothered. I wish I'd had the lie-in instead, this is vile."

Behind them, the barmaid huffed quietly as she wrung out her mop, calling over her shoulder in an excessively cheerful voice, "I'm _so_ sorry sir isn't enjoying his _free_ breakfast..."

The Doctor tensed, shooting a wary glance at his companion, but there was no flash of expected temper. The Master smirked briefly down at his bowl, amused. "Why, Elsie, that _almost_ sounds like you're being insincere."

"Not on me life, sir."

The Time Lord hummed sceptically, finally turning his full attention to the Doctor. He did a little double-take, brows raising as he looked him scathingly up and down. "You look a state."

The Doctor frowned, reaching up self-consciously to pat his hair into some semblance of order. "...Thanks?"

Somehow looking his usual standard of put together, all sharp lines and combed hair, the Master drummed his fingers on the bar in consideration. He studied the Doctor's pinstripe suit trousers and red trainers critically, eventually glancing down at himself as well. "We should go shopping," he concluded at last, like that was a perfectly reasonable suggestion in their current circumstances.

The Doctor stared at him, at a loss. "I mean. Sure. Not exactly top of the agenda, though, is it?"

The Master tipped his head in mock curiosity. "Oh right, what is?"

He opened his mouth and promptly stalled, once again brought up short. 'Finding the TARDIS' was pretty much top of the list, but he had to admit he had no idea how to manage that right now. "Well..."

The Master saw his hesitation and closed on it. "You're the one who wants us to fit in. We don't exactly look the part dressed like this." He ran his thumb critically down the lapel of his blazer, then shrugged. "Not to mention we have no idea how long we're stranded here. If you think I'm living indefinitely in this one outfit, you're sorely mistaken. We don't all live like savages."

The Doctor leaned back on his stool. "I _was_ hoping not to be here long enough to have to keep you in a winter wardrobe, to be honest, but if you really insist..."

The other man smiled, pleased with the small victory. His mood had evidently improved from the strained, manic tension of the previous night, although it wasn't immediately obvious what had tipped the balance.

"There's still the slight problem of no money," the Doctor pointed out, a last-ditch effort, not having any real hope of it being a real deterrent.

Predictably unfazed, the Master leaned into his space, reaching a hand boldly into his front trouser pocket, and the Doctor didn't react quickly enough to stop him extracting the pad of psychic paper. The Master held it up between them, adopting a completely sincere expression. "I thought I'd pay for everything with my very generous letters of bank credit. Peaceful enough for you?"

The Doctor sighed in defeat, resigning himself to the shopping spree in his near future. He supposed maintaining the Master's congenial mood was at least second on the priority list, so it wasn't entirely a wasted venture. "Fine. But we need to find time in your busy day schedule to see if there's anything going on in the city. I need to know what spooked the TARDIS if we're ever going to get her back."

"Of course."

* * *

The Doctor had always been vain. He was aware of the minor character flaw, although if asked he'd argue his vanity was select, and not actually undeserved. He liked to be admired, liked to be the acknowledged genius in any given crowded room. He'd been known to preen for friends and enemies alike, given the opportunity, showing off just how smart he was, how quick and creative and _right_. But beyond that, actually being _liked_ had somehow always seemed slightly less important.

The Master was also vain, but in very different ways, he was beginning to realise. The Doctor had never really thought about it before, possibly because it had been so long since they'd been amicable enough around each other for him to see the Master at any kind of ease. Now, he stood around in vague bemusement, trailing the other Time Lord through clothing stores and tailors and shoemakers, with the sense he was very much out of his own element.

The Master knew precisely what he wanted as he led them from retailer to retailer, and the Doctor reluctantly considered that this was a serious endeavour to him, not the trivial distraction he'd first assumed. The other Time Lord had always used clothing like he used everything else: a construction of power and control, an expression of contrived persona, a guard against the rest of the universe. Suits of armour with topstitching. If he needed that to keep himself calm in their sudden state of disaster, the Doctor supposed he didn't begrudge.

Nor did his vanity end there. In every establishment they set foot inside, the Doctor could only watch with faint disbelief as the Master positively _exuded_ charm. He was still demanding and exact and entitled in all his requests, of course, but charismatic enough that the humans he spoke to were more often than not enthusiastic in jumping to obey. He flirted with shop assistants, joked with the tailor taking his measurements, poked fun at the Doctor's fashion sense for the entertainment of his human audience. It reminded the Doctor of how he'd interacted with Elsie the barmaid that morning: imperious, certainly, but indulgent of her sarcasm back to him.

Despite his offhand scorn for the human race at large, the Doctor was realising in amazement that the Master liked to be _liked_. He basked in it, played up to it. His stint as the trusted, popular Prime Minister of Great Britain suddenly made so much more sense that the Doctor marvelled at the revelation.

He felt distinctly as though he'd paused to play dress-up in the middle of a crisis, but in the end the Master's enthusiasm was contagious. That, or the Doctor was no more immune to the conscious spell of charm than the humans around them. Either way, he found himself indulging the Master's sudden interest with increasing amusement. He let the other Time Lord pick out clothing and accompaniments for both of them, the Master claiming not to trust the Doctor's taste unsupervised, and they argued happily about what suited and what didn't while tailors looked on with poorly concealed impatience. The only sticking point was the apparently very fashionable bowtie the Master wanted him to wear. He'd whinged about hating bowties until the other man relented, letting him pick the garish purple paisley necktie he wanted instead, although it seemed to visibly pain him to look at.

Task done, the Master smirked over at him conspiratorially when he flashed the psychic paper in payment, and the Doctor rolled his eyes but made no effort to stop him.

They were _playing_ , he realised with faint, self-conscious pleasure.

"Thank you, Mister Saxon, we'll have everything else delivered to your residence first thing in the morning. Enjoy the rest of your day."

Dressed in what the Doctor could only infer was the current height of fashion, they stepped out of the last shop into the cold sunlight of a November afternoon. The Master looked thoroughly pleased with himself as he flipped open a new pocketwatch, presumably more to complete his aesthetic than any real need to confirm the time, before tucking it back into his silk waistcoat and strolling close to the Doctor as they meandered along the row of shopfronts. In fairness, the Doctor had to admit they were definitely far less conspicuous to the average passerby now, which could only be a good thing.

"Happy now?"

"Reasonably. Less embarrassed to be seen next you, at least."

"I'm so relieved."

They neared a jewellers, and the Master stopped to peer at the glittering display in the window.

"One last thing."

He darted through the shop door while the Doctor lingered at the window outside. He had no intention of accessorising any further, and thought following the other man inside would only tempt him. Hands buried in his pockets, he turned instead to survey the street, a little wistful. It had been decades in his own timeline since he'd been anywhere near this time period. The last visit had been with Rose. He arched an eyebrow, thinking about how drastically things had changed since then. Although. That said, somehow here he was still travelling the universe with a bleach blond who drove him insane. His mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. Maybe he had a _type_.

The Master re-emerged as though on cue, catching the tail end of his grin. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the Doctor, busy slipping something shiny into his coat pocket. "What?"

"Nothing. Can we _please_ take a proper look around now, if you're quite done shopping?"

They resumed walking, the Master shrugging amiably. "Sure. Where's the local noticeboard for current city events that might interfere with Gallifreyan technology's ability to manifest physically...?"

The Doctor sighed tiredly. "I am open to other suggestions, if you've got them."

"Wouldn't dream. This is all you. I await your dazzling display of genius."

He raised his eyes skywards in a silent search for patience, remaining quiet as they walked on. They passed by a few well dressed humans, chattering in the bright afternoon sun. His attention landed briefly on a little girl trailing in the wake of one such couple, drawn by the vibrant blaze of her red hair, absently noting she was a scruffy little creature to be in this part of London. She skirted by them, eyes lowered, and his fleeting interest returned to the problem at hand.

"Okay, well I was thinking -"

Movement blurred in the Doctor's periphery as the Master suddenly stopped walking beside him.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're -"

The Doctor turned too slow to prevent the scene suddenly unfolding in front of him. With scarcely time to be horrified, he could only watch as the Master grabbed hold of the red haired girl, catching her hard by the wrist until she yowled like a startled cat. She'd had her hand in his pocket, the Doctor saw; an opportunistic thief who'd just happened to pick the worst imaginable target. He started towards them, hands outstretched like he could somehow manage the situation. His hearts sped in panic, quite certain he was about to witness the Master kill her on the spot for the offence.

She shrieked again, so loud and shrill that most of the street stopped in their tracks, turning to look at the commotion in alarm. "Let me _go_!" All guttersnipe Irish accent, snarling and spitting like a wild thing, she pushed and scratched and threw herself away from him, doing exactly nothing to loosen the vice grip he had on her wrist.

"You thieving little brat!"

"I didn't _take_ anything!" Furious and scared, she aimed a kick at his shin.

" _Useless_ thief, then," he amended, petty. At last he seemed to remember himself, flicking an annoyed look up at their surroundings and then over to the Doctor. "What?"

"Let her go," the Doctor echoed quickly, hands still up in a calming gesture. "Look, she's sorry." It occurred to him immediately that appealing to the Master on those grounds was pointless, so corrected with a more pragmatic thought, directing his gaze pointedly at the watching humans. "And we _really_ don't need this kind of attention."

"Speak for yourself."

Things started to happen rather quickly, then. The first thing the Doctor noticed was the muttering from the crowd. He thought it was disapproval, and glanced past the Master's altercation nervously. Doing so, he set eyes on the armed, uniformed men striding along the street towards them.

He straightened with a frown, confused. Bit of a police overreaction to pickpocketing, surely.

"Uhm...?"

The Master shot another impatient glance over at him, then followed the line of his gaze. So did the girl.

Immediately, she let out a little wordless moan of what was unmistakeably dread. Her knees buckled and she sank down, until the Master found himself the only thing holding her up. He gave her wrist a tug, but she was too busy staring at the black-clad men marching directly for them. There were six of them, moving in a purposeful formation of pairs. They had rifles propped against their left shoulders, and looked more militant than any regular law officers of this period.

The Doctor edged closer, touching the Master's arm to get his attention. "I... don't think those are police."

" _Really_ , I hadn't at all noticed!"

The soldiers - for lack of any other description - drew within earshot. The first pair among them stopped, lowered their rifles and took aim at the two astounded Time Lords.

"Stop there! On order of Her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria!"

"What the hell...?" the Master murmured faintly, echoing the Doctor's unvoiced sentiments.

The other humans who'd so far lingered to observe the drama quickly began to disperse by unacknowledged agreement, disappearing into shops or round corners. The would-be thief, as well, seemed to want nothing more than to make herself scarce, suddenly starting to fight and scratch with renewed vigour.

"Let me go, please, _please_ , don't let them -!"

The soldiers spread out, all of them now lowering guns to point at them. "Step away from the girl and walk towards us!"

The Doctor pointed a finger at himself in wordless astonishment. While it wasn't necessarily unusual that he was faced with outraged authorities, as far as he was aware he hadn't yet done anything to warrant this kind of arrest. If nothing else, he hadn't had _time_!

The Master leaned down to grab the girl firmly by the shoulders. He shook her, and when she finally looked at him he pointed at the soldiers. "Who the hell are they?"

The girl just shook her head, stunned and terrified.

"Walk towards us now or we shoot!"

The Doctor held out his arms incredulously. "Oh, come on! There's hardly any need for that!" he called back, gesturing dismissively at the other two. "They're fine, she's fine! All a bit of a misunderstanding, really -"

The rifleshot sent him scrambling backwards, ducking in shock. The girl screamed, terrified. The Master surged upright, sweeping a furious, assessing glare over the Doctor to determine if he was hurt, before turning his dangerous attention on the soldiers.

The Doctor darted towards him, pulling at his arm, urging him away. "Yeah, we should run. _Now_."

"I'm not -"

"Just _run_!"

He took off as the second gunshot sounded, staggering as he bent low and kept moving. With a growl the Master turned to follow, racing after him with girl in tow. The soldier shouted an order and they immediately broke formation to give chase.

They ran out of the confines of the fashionable sidestreet they'd been on, turning onto a main road more heavily populated and filled with passing traffic. Startled humans darted out of their way, and behind them a more alarmed murmur went up as the armed soldiers spilled after them. The girl the Master was still holding onto screamed again.

"Why are you bringing her?!" the Doctor yelled back over his shoulder. "Just let her go!"

"She knows something about those morons shooting at us!" the Master snapped back at him. "And if you really want me to stick to this 'no weapons, no killing' nonsense, I'm afraid I need slightly more to work with!"

She wailed another protest, and the Doctor winced. So much for staying inconspicuous, it looked like they were kidnapping a child. They possibly were.

It quickly became apparent that she couldn't easily keep up with them, as she fell behind and would have tripped if not for the Master dragging her back upright by the wrist. The Doctor slowed, intending to take her other hand and help pull her along. The other man didn't give him the chance. Growling impatience, the Master suddenly reached down and grabbed the little girl under the arms, hauling her up off the ground. She shrieked louder than ever and clung to him, arms going round his neck in a near chokehold. The Doctor almost stopped moving entirely in sheer shock at the sight - but the Master shoved roughly at him as he passed, snarling back over his shoulder, "Come the _fuck_ on!"

They hurtled along the pavement, diving around startled humans in their path when possible, crashing past them when not. The Doctor risked a harried glance back, saw their uniformed pursuers closer than ever. Facing forward again, his eyes scanned in search of inspiration. Ahead, a carriage was trundling along the cobbles towards them, and he fixed on that.

Thinking a fervent apology, the Doctor pulled out his sonic and took hasty aim as he ran. At the blast of concentrated soundwaves, the reaction was immediate. Animal and driver alike screamed in pain, the human letting go of the reins to clap his hands over his ears, the horse rearing up in protest. Pedestrians close to the carriage fell back in fright. A smaller cab swerved out of the way, skidding up against the pavement. The spooked horse landed with a crash and promptly took off running, carriage dragged wildly behind it.

The Master clearly anticipated his idea. Without hesitation, he darted around a corner onto the nearest sidestreet to his right. The Doctor followed, pausing only long enough to aim a second blast of the sonic at the unfortunate carriage. Vibrating loose, tack fastenings and carriage fittings snapped apart under the strain, and the suddenly freed horse surged forward into the press of traffic and milling people. Out of control with momentum, the carriage careened after it like a wrecking ball.

A fleeting glance back saw the dark-clad pursuers in scattered chaos, along with every other human in the vicinity, all of them scrambling for safety. The Doctor whirled and sprinted after the Master.

They ran on, away from the scene. The Master slowed briefly to heft the child in his arms, pointing, and they hurriedly angled across to the other side of the street and into the narrow mouth of an alleyway. It was a tight crevice of brickwork, hardly wide enough for one person, and branched off as it twisted between the maze of high, clustered buildings. They took turns at random, bounding over detritus and refuse underfoot, accidentally scraping up against the rough bricks.

At last, by unspoken agreement, they began to slow. The Master tipped his head back as he tried to catch his breath. It looked like it took some effort to pry the girl's limpet grip from his neck, but eventually he dropped her unceremoniously back on her feet, grabbing her shoulders before she could run and bending just enough to fix her with a glare.

"Okay, you little nightmare, start talking."

The Doctor joined them, out of breath himself, flopping back against the alley wall. He nodded tiredly, aiming for reassurance. "Please. We're got no idea who they are. Anything you've got, really." He winced on the last word, clamping a hand over the twinge of pain in his side. He'd been sedentary in his TARDIS for too long, grown unaccustomed to a good chase.

Splotchy faced and sullen, she looked between them with the sulky scorn only a pissed off eight-ish year old could summon. For a second it looked like she'd stay stubbornly silent, but the Master gave her an insistent shake and she blurted, "They take people."

The Doctor blinked. "Do they? Why?"

She hitched a shoulder, uncooperative. "Dunno."

"Well what _do_ you know, then?" the Master snapped. "Don't make me reconsider your usefulness."

The girl rolled her eyes dramatically, but eventually added, "Not police. Think they're soldiers. Heard people call them Torchwood."

While the Master remained looking unimpressed, the Doctor felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. "...Oh." He brought a closed fist up to his mouth, realising. " _Oh_."

The other Time Lord looked over at him with narrowed eyes. "What?"

He winced. "I think... I think they might be after me."

The Master straightened, incredulous. "What do you mean, they're after _you_? You're not even supposed to _be_ here, neither of us are!"

His mouth worked helplessly for a moment as he tried to find the shape of his explanation. "Well. See. About that. Tiny bit of a standing banishment on me in this time period. Had a slight misunderstanding with Queen Victoria."

The other man's expression immediately twisted with distaste and exasperation. "Oh you didn't marry _this_ one as well, did you?"

"No! She just took... sort of a dislike, really. I honestly thought it would pass, the whole exile bit. Found out later she set up Torchwood to keep me out. All got a little out of hand, after that..."

"Of course this is your mess. Don't know why I'm even surprised."

The Doctor scratched the underside of his jaw in thought, frowning. "Didn't think they'd be that quick in realising I was here, to be honest."

"Are they why we have no TARDIS?"

"No idea. Must have found some impressive defence tech if it is." He considered for a moment, then looked down at the girl curiously. "What did you mean, they take people?"

She'd been following their conversation back and forth with solemn, uncomprehending eyes, and now blinked in surprise at being directly addressed. She shrugged again. "Just sometimes. When people are... different. The soldiers come and take them, and they don't come back."

He exchanged a speaking glance with the Master. The Doctor was fairly certain that 'different' in this case translated to 'potentially alien', given Torchwood's longstanding mission statement. Which likely put both Time Lords pride of place on their wanted list.

"Do you know what they do with them? Where they go?"

She shook her head cautiously.

He let out a slow exhale, mind already occupied with the possibilities. "Alright. Thanks for your help."

Her attention turned hopefully back to the Master, peering up at him from under the dishevelled mop of her hair.

The Time Lord scowled, finally releasing her with a little nudge. "Fine. Go on then." He gestured dismissively. "Sod off."

With a last wary glance between them, she turned and took off running, quickly disappearing from view in the twists and turns of the gloomy alley.

The Doctor held up his hands. "Before you say anything -"

The Master sneered. "Oh go on, can't wait to hear how this isn't your fault -"

"It's not! How was I meant to know -"

"- just swanning round the universe leaving a trail of spurned women -"

"- are you _seriously_ making this about -"

"- and why is it always _monarchs_? My _god_ , you are so -"

"- I _didn't marry Queen Victoria_ , just -"

"Stop! On order of Her Majesty!"

They turned, annoyed at the interruption. A single Torchwood soldier had found their hiding spot, and was hurrying through the narrow passage towards them. Under their sudden attention, he halted and started to take aim with a rifle.

The Doctor reacted instinctively, stepping towards him and raising the sonic. He didn't point it at the human but above him, up towards the buildings overhead, activating a pulse of high-pitched sound. The soldier looked up in bewilderment - just as every glass window of the multi-storey structures around them shattered. The man swore, threw himself against one of the alley walls and down to the ground, arms up over his head as the air turned glittering with glass shards.

The Master grabbed the Doctor's arm and pulled him round, dragging him into a run. He was laughing breathlessly, the Doctor realised in disbelief as they resumed their frantic escape. He looked delighted, in fact; hazel eyes bright with enjoyment as he shot a glance back at the Doctor.

"I get it now!" he called happily.

"Get what?"

Lightfooted, the Master executed a quick turn, skipping backwards a few steps so he could face the Doctor with his arms outstretched at his sides. "No weapons! You're just playing my game in creative mode, Doctor! This is fun!"

His automatic answering smile faltered and fell from his mouth, but the other man was already spinning back around and didn't notice. They ran on, out into the labyrinth of the city, the Master's enthused laughter drifting in their wake.

* * *

They made it back to the _Rose & Crown _significantly better dressed but more dishevelled than they'd left. They'd taken a long meandering path back, running half of it, keeping out of sight where they could, just to be sure they'd lost the pursuing soldiers. It was late evening by the time they trailed back inside, earning a cocked eyebrow but no comment from Bob. Moving through the crowd of patrons, they made straight for the stairs at the back of the room. The Doctor wanted little more than a quiet space to get his bearings. The Master seemed more exhilarated by the whole experience, a little bounce in his step as he walked in front.

The barmaid who'd made breakfast that morning appeared from the kitchen, climbing the stairs ahead of them. The Master grinned at the sight of her, hurrying to follow.

"Elsie, a moment." The Time Lord bounded lightly up the stairs after her, coming to stand on the one just above and impeding her progress. They stood high enough that they were mostly out of view of the main room, although the crowded rumble of conversation carried loudly.

She watched him with wary irritation. "I have work to be getting on with, Mister Saxon, I really need -"

"I'm sure you do - shut up for a second and turn around."

She jerked her head back and stared at him incredulously, not moving.

The Master just continued to wait, eyebrows raised in expectation. After a few seconds he twirled a finger as though to clarify the instruction.

Huffing, she turned moodily away from the Time Lord so she was facing the Doctor instead, where he was standing at the foot of the stairs watching the proceedings. He shrugged in equal bemusement when she shot him a questioning frown.

The Master dipped his hand into his coat pocket, and to the Doctor's surprise extracted a glittering chain of gold and generously sized rubies - his brief errand in the jewellers, presumably. "I brought you a present," he explained amiably, taking the necklace in both hands and raising it over her head.

She startled as she saw it, scandalised, half protesting as he draped it around her. "Sir, what -!"

"All yours. But let's be very upfront with each other, alright?" He finished fastening the clasp, sliding the fingertips of one hand over the line of jewels, to rest against the mid pendant between her clavicles. She'd frozen, wide eyed, trying to dart glances down at herself where he touched her. "There are strings very much attached."

"Sir?"

Tense, the Doctor folded his arms tight around himself as he watched, one hand coming up to press against his mouth as he fought the instinct to interrupt. He hadn't known the Master was going to do this - whatever _this_ was - and his nerves ratcheted up accordingly.

"Consider it a down-payment," the Master went on. "I'm afraid we may be staying longer than first expected, and from now on I expect certain... standards."

"Like what?"

"Better food, for one thing," he drawled immediately. "If you come near me again with that gruel you called breakfast, we're going to have words, Elsie. Learn to cook, or hire someone who can. If I want roast dinner with trimmings for a midnight snack, you're going to get yourself up and make it with tender, loving care. Yes?"

She looked astonished, completely confused, but twitched a nod without hesitation. "I can do that."

"Good girl." He flattened his hand carefully over the necklace, applying enough pressure that she swayed back against him, hands wringing nervously in her skirts. Although a room full of people was nearby, it was suddenly uncomfortably evident that there were no real witnesses to the moment. "Let's see, what else. A warm bath made up once a day, I think. Our room kept warm and tidy. Oh, and I might need you to run errands on occasion. Anything I'm missing, Doctor?"

He shook his head wordlessly, trying to glare a warning.

"Hm, if I think of something else I'll make sure to add it to the list."

She swallowed, eyes fluttering closed at the gentle threat of his hand on her throat. "Is that... is that everything? Or...?"

He seemed to realise what she was afraid of asking, finally letting her go with a friendly nudge. "Don't worry. I've got him for that, love."

She immediately dropped down a step, spinning quickly so she could press her back to the banister and face him, clutching at the necklace he'd given her. She kept trying to look down at it, somewhere between frightened and elated. It was likely more wealth than she'd laid eyes on before, the Doctor thought sympathetically.

"Brings out your eyes," the Master complimented, offhand. "We've got an understanding then?"

She nodded again, clearing her throat before she trusted herself to speak. "Aye, sir. Thank you, sir." Then she was rushing back down the stairs, away from him, before she'd even finished speaking, brushing past the Doctor and promptly disappearing back through the door to the relative safe haven of the kitchen.

They both watched her go. When the Doctor turned back to pin the other Time Lord with an incredulous stare, the Master held his hands out proudly. "See? I can be nice!" Pleased with himself, he resumed his journey up the stairs, disappearing from sight.

Shaking his head with faint disbelief, the Doctor was about to follow when a thought occurred to him. He turned and wandered back towards the bar. Bob was busy serving a customer, but cast him a wary look of askance as he approached. "Drink, sir?"

"No, thanks. Just wanted to ask if you knew anything going on in the city right now. Anything unusual, I mean."

The man levelled an exceptionally tired look at him, pausing in his work. "A great much, I imagine. Rather depends what you count as 'unusual', course." He flicked his gaze over the Doctor, wordlessly communicating that the most unusual thing in his world right now were his two strange, unwanted, free-loading guests. Which was fair.

"Yeah, but I mean... more so. Out of the ordinary. Any big disruptions?" Something that would scare a TARDIS off? Anywhere you might think to hide one?

"Nothing jumping to mind, sir."

"Ever hear of Torchwood?"

Bob squinted thoughtfully as though trying to remember something. "...That a brand of cider?"

The Doctor sighed. He glanced around, scanning the crowd. He would ask Elsie later, after she'd calmed down a bit. "Do you mind if I ask the barmaids?"

"Elsie's in the kitchen. Catch her when she comes out."

"What about the other one? I didn't catch her name, sorry."

Again Bob scowled at him, mostly looking like he desperately hoped the Doctor would go away soon. "Only girl I got is Elsie. Can't help you past that."

"No, there was definitely another one. About this high, bit forward, looks sort of like a baby dear...?"

This time, the man didn't bother to answer, issuing only a withering stare before moving down the bar to speak to the next customer. The Doctor frowned, faintly confused. He replayed the conversation he'd had with the woman in the alleyway the night before, sure he hadn't imagined that she'd said she worked here.

Well. He'd found something unusual, at least.


	3. Chapter 3

Where would Torchwood keep its base in this time period?

Out of sight, he had to presume, and somewhere close to the Crown's base of power. They'd had just over a decade to establish themselves as an organisation, if they'd began immediately after his last visit. Clearly, they'd wasted none of that time in spreading a reputation among those who might have cause to fear them, if the young thief's reaction was anything to judge by. She herself hadn't struck him as anything but human, but she may have witnessed what happened to those who weren't, among the poorer castes of the city.

And they'd been vigilant in watching for him throughout that time, he realised. They'd been too quick in coming for him to have been otherwise. He hadn't expected Victoria's wrath against him to endure, truthfully; or at least it had never occurred to him to worry about again. But then he'd never been very good with parsing the complexities of human women, for all he quite liked them.

"Well I hope you don't expect us to stay cooped up here," the Master complained, with a disdainful glance around the crowded barroom. "I don't do cowering."

They'd claimed a table downstairs by the fire, found a deck of cards on the mantlepiece, and were occupied playing a halfhearted game of blackjack. The thrill was lost somewhat by the fact they were both clearly counting the cards.

"No," the Doctor agreed absently, examining his hand. "If they did something to the TARDIS, I need to talk to them. Which unfortunately means drawing them out. Hit."

The other Time Lord tossed a card to him, bored. "And then you'll do what, exactly? Say, 'Pretty please give me my big blue box back'?"

Ten of hearts. Bust. Sighing, he dropped the hand of cards on the table in defeat. "I was thinking more along the lines of doing something a bit clever and daring. Not sure what, yet, but I'm sure I'll think of something."

Unimpressed with his own meagre victory, the Master slumped back, evidently giving up on the game. He had his elbows propped on the arms of his chair, a glass of whiskey dangling precariously from one hand, lazily tilting the liquid this way and that. The light of the fire cast a flattering glow across him, turned his heavy-lidded eyes amber as they trailed across the room, his hair gold.

The Doctor shifted in his own chair, momentarily taken aback by the flash of attraction that went through him. It still felt like a new development, letting himself acknowledge it. An illicit little thrill, even now. He licked his lower lip self-consciously, unsure how to proceed, and then stretched himself so their ankles brushed under the table. He nudged into the contact, purposeful.

The Master slid a glance over to him, so slow and cold that the Doctor froze in surprise. Equally pointed, the other man withdrew his legs under his chair, out of reach. He blinked slowly, like a cat, and then turned his head away to sip from his drink.

The Doctor let out a disappointed breath, raising his eyebrows wryly at the rejection. It was almost always the Master who initiated these things, but he'd made no effort to touch him since the Doctor declined his last attempt. It was rather obvious he was being frozen out in retaliation. He wondered bleakly how long that would go on for.

"So that's the plan, is it," the Master drawled, not looking at him. "Parade ourselves like tarts until the primitives with the big guns come for you again, at which time you'll perform some heretofore unspecified heroics and everything will come just right. Have I missed anything, or is that a fairly accurate summary?"

"Minus the sarcasm..."

"Brilliant. Can't see a flaw." His lip curling in scorn, he gestured dismissively to the room at large. "And in the mean time we're just... _stuck_. Again! This isn't travelling, it's... convalescing."

"I know this wasn't the plan - and, trust me, I want the TARDIS back as much as you do - but... it's not that bad yet. Is it? Slight detour."

The other Time Lord shot him an irritated look. "It's intolerable. I keep being... _locked down_ like the universe thinks it has a right. How is this happening again? How is this _fair_?!"

"I don't think the universe has any particular designs on your liberty. Let's just - get through it, get the TARDIS back, and we can go wherever you want."

"I'll try not to die of boredom while I wait on that."

The Doctor's mouth turned down briefly, then up into a slightly forced smile. "That tired of me already?"

The Master sneered, unsympathetic. "I'm tired of this whole damn planet. _Earth_ , of all fucking places..."

He rubbed his eyes, bracing himself against the vitriol. "I know you don't like humans, alright? I've heard it before, you can stop telling me."

"Oh no, I like humans just fine." Again the flat, cold gaze moved towards him, and the Master slowly showed his teeth in something like a smile. "Taste like chicken."

The Doctor flinched, unable to stop the visceral reaction. Closed his eyes, felt his mouth twist in disgust, his stomach turn. "Don't."

The other man gave a nasty laugh. "What? Don't want to make eyes and play footsie with me anymore?" He waited a moment, eyes wide and curious, and then the expression went completely blank. "Didn't think so." Standing, he swilled back the last of his drink, examined the empty glass disinterestedly. Then, without another word, he turned and stalked away towards the bar.

Trying to recover his composure, the Doctor shook his head like he could rid himself of the imagery. He wiped his palms across his suit pants, reached forward to pick up his own drink, taking a mouthful to wash away the suddenly sour taste in his mouth. He forgot, sometimes, what his friend was capable of.

His attention tracked the other man as he perched atop a stool at the bar, where he'd no doubt spend a while sulking. If they were still aboard the TARDIS, it was at this point of irritable sniping they'd take themselves off to far corners of the ship in search of peace. Ironically, here with a whole city, a whole planet to roam if they really wanted to, it seemed like they were somehow tethered more closely than ever. The Doctor didn't particularly want to let the other Time Lord stray far from his sight - and perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he suspected the Master felt a variation of the same. For the Doctor, there was of course the pragmatic concern of needing to make sure the other man behaved. But it was more than that, really. After so long spent just the two of them in isolation, being so abruptly stranded among the crush of humans was... disconcerting, in a way it hadn't been for a long time. He wanted to stay close.

So they remained at opposite sides of the room, seething somewhat, easily within each other's sight if they cared to look.

"Alright, clever boy."

Pulled from his thoughts, he looked up in surprise to see the woman from the alley standing beside him. Before he could do or say anything, she moved to throw herself down into the chair the Master had recently vacated, shoving her voluminous skirts down as they piled around her. Settled, she fixed him with a bright, expectant look.

For a moment he stilled, uncertain how he should react to the sight of her. He still didn't sense any real threat or hostility, even if she wasn't quite who she'd said she was. Then again, he supposed, she hadn't actually _said_ who she was, had she?

"I never asked your name," he said carefully, narrowing his eyes.

She grinned slowly, as though pleased with his progress. "No, you didn't. Bit rude."

"Yeeaahh, I'd say I'm working on that, but." He tugged an earlobe thoughtfully, nodded towards her. "And I know you don't really work here, by the way. I checked. So who are you?"

She seemed to debate for a moment, biting her lip. Then she leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice lowered. "Clara. Clara Oswald. Hello, Doctor." She watched him intently, like she was waiting for a particular response.

He leaned forward as well, matching her posture and lowering his own voice. "Nice to meet you, Clara Oswald. Am I supposed to know you?"

Before she could conceal it, her expression flickered disappointment, all the mischievousness draining out of her. "Suppose not. But you would have done. Not yet though. Guess you never will, now..." She frowned, cocked her head in frustration. "Ugh, how do you keep it all straight? I hate this, it's such a mess in my brain."

He felt a sinking sensation, wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Oh. This is one of those... out of order timelines, isn't it? Hate it when this happens, never sits right." Heaving a sigh, he gestured reluctantly for her to continue. "Go on then. What do I need to know? I assume that's why you've come looking for me."

She smiled, looking both amused and oddly sad. "It's not that simple."

"Misaligned time streams are 'simple' to you, that's interesting. How well do we know each other, exactly?"

"Me and you, specifically? We don't." She tipped her head, so her dark curls slipped across her shoulder. "I did try to tell you, Doctor: you're not supposed to be here. Not... _this_ you, anyway. The next you, _he's_ the one who was supposed to be here."

Something flashed through him. Annoyance, maybe. Shock that she knew about his other selves. Something that made heat flush under his skin, his hearts speed briefly. "There _is_ no 'next me'," he snapped. " _I'm_ me. Now-me, _just_ me."

She scoffed incredulously. "Wow, and I thought the other version was arrogant..."

"Stop saying that." Bristling, he sat back in his chair, scrubbed his fingers through his unruly fringe. "You must have met a future regeneration of mine, that's -"

"No, I was _supposed_ to meet a future regeneration of yours. Two years from now, Christmas 1892, right here. But something's... _wrong_ now, and I can't -" She pressed her hands to her temples, eyes squeezed shut for a second. "I don't even know how I know that, it hasn't happened yet. How do I know that?"

"I've got _no_ idea."

They stared at each other in shared confusion. The Doctor shot a quick glance over her shoulder, but the Master hadn't yet noticed his company, his back still turned.

"Look, I'm sorry, but that regeneration's gone now. It's not happening."

"No, but it _did_ happen!" For a moment she looked both utterly convinced and completely lost. Her eyebrows pinched up pleadingly, like she was waiting for him to explain. "I _know_ it happened, I'm only _here_ because it happened!"

"What does that mean?"

"I don't... I don't _know_ , okay? I just know that you're supposed to be _him_."

"Would you stop saying 'supposed'?! I'm not 'supposed' to be anything, it's _my_ timeline! I'm not a fixed point, I'm not... set in stone. My future changes all the time, that doesn't -"

"But it wasn't just _your_ future!" Her voice had risen with sudden emotion. She gestured in frustration at her head. "Because I have all these... _memories_ that never happened. A version of me that's not me, a version of you that's not this one. Times, places, things I can't just have imagined. And I can't explain it. _You're_ the Time Lord, you tell me - what's gone wrong? Because do you want to know what _I_ think, Doctor? I think you fucked something up."

He glared at her, immediately defensive. "I'm telling you, you can't, you _can't_ have known me - him - _he_ doesn't exist anymore! That timeline is gone, by _my_ choice. And you - I don't know how you can remember things that haven't happened yet, and never will happen now, but you - _you_ -" He pointed at her, fumbling for a moment for a conclusion. "You, Clara Oswald, are an impossible thing."

If anything, she just looked more exhausted than ever. "Yeah. So I've heard."

He would have gone on, but they were interrupted.

"Who's your friend?"

The Doctor looked up sharply at the question, oddly flustered. The Master stood beside him with one hand in his pocket, the other holding yet another tumbler of whiskey. His attention was fixed on Clara, who met it with her standard low-level amusement, leaning back in her chair and crossing one ankle over the other. The Doctor shifted awkwardly, feeling ridiculously like he'd been caught doing something illicit.

"Uh, this is -"

"No one special," Clara finished for him, charming smile firmly in place, dark eyes guarded. "Your mate was being a gent, keeping a girl entertained."

"I'm sure he was," the Master drawled, nonplussed. "Well, No One Special, you're in my seat. Be a love, sod off."

She scoffed mild offence, half smiling. When the Time Lord only continued to regard her blandly, sipping once from his drink, her eyebrows shot up as she realised he was serious. "...Right then." She rose, straightening her skirts and pausing long enough to fix the Doctor with a judgmental look. "Nice company you're keeping."

He closed his eyes in wry agreement.

Clara edged round the Master, who made absolutely no move to get out of her way, peering unhelpfully down his nose at her as she went. His jealous displeasure was practically palpable. He watched as she disappeared off into the crowded room, and then turned his glare on the Doctor.

"Do Earth girls just _flock_ to you if you sit still long enough, or do you take out advertisements somewhere...?"

* * *

He didn't say anything to the Master, about the claims she'd made.

By some flukish miracle the other Time Lord didn't seem to have noticed anything particularly out of the ordinary, or didn't mention it if he had. Nor did the Doctor. In a moment of cowardice, he took his lead from Clara and let the lie stand: that she was no one special, that she'd been a chance meeting. He couldn't explain, even to himself, why reluctance overcame him at the thought of recounting his two strange encounters with the girl who called herself Clara. An impossible girl, impossible encounters. Giving voice to the experience, the implications of the things she'd said, felt like acknowledging something he wasn't quite willing to. For all that he didn't yet understand who she really was, there were some questions he didn't particularly want the answer to.

So he said nothing, and instead turned his attention to the far more pressing matter of once again salvaging the Master's foul mood.

* * *

Days passed.

For lack of any other ideas, they did as the Doctor had halfheartedly suggested and purposely made themselves visible around the streets of London, hoping to lure Torchwood out into the open again. In a strange way, they became the tourists the Doctor had originally intended for them to be, although he'd have much preferred to be away from Earth, and with at least the _option_ to leave if they'd wanted to. They took the opportunity to visit the sights, the Doctor curious and enthusiastically rattling off what trivia he remembered about the period, the Master typically scathing and exasperated and loudly proclaiming his perpetual boredom.

Despite that, the Doctor noticed he could be pulled into reluctant conversation around particular topics that interested him. They went to see the new underground railway, the Master always secretly pleased with feats of engineering (even ones as basic to them as 19th Century transport) and together they idly debated the merits of industry and progress and ambition of the age. To entertain himself, the Master collected newspapers like historical artifacts. They sat on a bench in Trafalgar Square one morning, pointedly visible, while he picked through the headlines looking for tragedies and disasters like they were comic strips. He was particularly taken by the news from America, reading aloud to the Doctor an account of their first use of the electric chair as a method of execution, horrifically botched, with all the enthused, bloodthirsty glee of a boy burning ants with a magnifying glass. He poured over the sensationalist fiction in them with affected scorn, tearing through _Sherlock Holmes_ publications in a flurry of scoffing disdain, and reading an early copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ in a single sitting - apparently for the sole purpose of being able to quote irreverent aphorisms at inopportune moments ever since.

Not once in their explorations around the city, however, did they encounter Torchwood soldiers again.

"We've had you on show for the best part of a week now, where the hell are they?" the Master demanded with faint offence, as they walked the slick pavement of the Thames waterfront one evening. "I thought they were supposed to be looking for you."

Thick fog had risen off the river to blanket the streets, plunging the city into damp, muffled silence. The blurry orange glow of street lamps shone in the darkness ahead of them, only the closest dimly visible. The sound of water lapping, boats knocking against a wooden jetty somewhere below them, drifted up from over the railing to their right, the sounds eerily distorted. The night was frigid and brittle, and their breath produced small plumes of mist with every exhale. The Doctor pulled his coat tighter and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets against the cold.

"Not sure," he answered eventually, speculative. "Maybe I was wrong, maybe they're not after me specifically."

"Not likely. They've met you, I'm comfortably certain they'd want to murder you."

He frowned, but tipped his head in concession.

The steady peal of a bell rang hauntingly across the water, signaling a ship trying to navigate the river. Ahead of them, a couple emerged from the fog, the only other presence within their limited range of visibility. The woman carried a heavy parasol in an attempt to keep off the pollution grime in the damp air. She had her hand tucked into the crook of her partner's elbow, and they spoke together in hushed, private tones, smiling.

The Doctor watched them as they passed, interested in the show of easy intimacy, surprised to feel a sharp flash of envy. Humans made it look so effortless. Happy and obvious in their connections; no obstacle courses of moral pitfalls, no fraught unspoken rules of engagement, no thousand year weight of history dragged behind them like millstones. He wondered what it would feel like to be permitted to touch the Master so easily, for no reason beyond wanting to, with something other than anger or emergency or grief.

The two humans disappeared in a swirl of chill fog, and the Doctor's jealous thoughts went with them.

The Master slowed his pace and drifted over towards the waterfront railing, laying his hands wide apart on the metal bar and leaning over it. He wore calfskin leather gloves which creaked slightly as his fingers curled. His eyes fixed on the black water below.

"I know you find it difficult, but _do_ try to stop staring at the wildlife..."

The Doctor faltered, confused for a second. "What? You mean -?" He spun, pointing in the vague direction the couple had gone. "I'm not!"

The Master huffed disbelievingly, keeping his attention on the obscure view of the river. "What's so damn fascinating, anyway?" he muttered. "Never understood your perverted little fixation."

The Doctor moved to join him, standing closer than was perhaps necessary. He watched the other man's profile, stilled by a moment of insight. The Master was _jealous_. He'd misunderstood the Doctor's passing interest in the humans, thought it was something more purposeful than it had been. He hesitated, knowing that to call him out directly would only invite an argument.

"I don't know, I just like them," he said eventually, which was true enough. "They're interesting."

The Master offered no response, but the muscle in his jaw clenched as though he was physically biting back scorn. The Doctor paused again, trying to decide how best to proceed. He wanted to defuse the sudden tension, but knew better than to say something trite and comforting. The Master would rip it to shreds in a second, infuriated.

"Not much like us, though," he settled on eventually, voice neutral.

"Oh?" came the snappish reply. "And what are we?"

Wasn't that just the loaded question. They were Time Lords, they were... old, and other. Alien in their mindset and capabilities to the human species, for all the superficial resemblance. And just _them_ , specifically? So tied up in each other's timelines that there was hardly any separating the trajectories anymore. Sometimes so opposed, so estranged from each other's understanding that there could be no consolidation; other times so united in purpose and perspective that they alone stood at the pinnacle, looking down at a universe that couldn't comprehend the view. They were both of them outsiders, even amongst their own kind. The dropouts, the criminals, bitter rivals, friends - lovers, maybe.

"The same," he answered at last, with faint realisation.

The Master looked across at him sharply, surprised enough to give away the reaction. Their eyes met. The Doctor tried to keep his expression as open as possible, letting the other man see his honesty. He wanted to blurt out that there was no reason to be jealous; that all of the Doctor's vast fascination was fixed firmly on the Master; that this tentative, dangerous _thing_ between them was all he wanted - but to do so would be to acknowledge an insecurity for which the other man wouldn't easily forgive him.

Said insecurity wasn't exactly a new development in their long history, but to the Doctor's mind it seemed to have become more apparent than ever in this latest incarnation of the other Time Lord, carving out a core of self-destruction in him that hadn't been there before. He supposed they'd both emerged from the Time War changed.

He'd seen it, felt it most clearly, just after the Master's botched resurrection, when he'd been sick and scared and raging at the world. Even caught by the full brunt of his anger, the Doctor's hearts had nevertheless ached for his friend as he'd watched Rassilon smack him down, disavowed for the very damage that had been purposely inflicted on him. It had been obvious to everyone present that he'd expected the same rejection from the Doctor, as he'd glared down the barrel of a gun and furiously dared him to shoot, unguarded psychic pain radiating throughout the room.

And while there was certainly an argument to be made for why the Doctor should have done exactly that - Wilf had outlined it in great detail; all but begged him to see sense and kill the other Time Lord, even after the immediate danger had passed - it wasn't something he could bring himself to truly consider. Possibly for all the wrong reasons.

The Master had since regained his typical composure in the wake of that brief vulnerability, of course; the persona of scornful, superior confidence firmly back in place. Living aboard the TARDIS for so long had helped, the Doctor suspected, though he doubted the other man was willing to admit as much. Despite the initial tension, the enforced peace had brought with it the chance for both of them to rest, and acclimatise, and speak more openly than they had in centuries.

Of course, that had all promptly fallen apart spectacularly at their first exposure to outside influence.

As though to demonstrate that very point, the Master visibly closed down his expression, turning his face away and denying the moment of attempted connection. "If you say so."

The Doctor released a disappointed breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, silently following the Master's gaze out across the fog covered river. His skin prickled with the lost potential of the moment.

Since they'd unceremoniously landed themselves in London, not once had the other man reached for him again with any real intent. They still spoke and bickered and played, easier around each other in that sense than they'd been in decades. But, beyond the one brief attempt the night they'd first been stranded, the Master seemed to show no interest in resuming the sexual relationship they'd shared while living aboard the TARDIS. If anything, it was the Doctor who continued to find himself in increasingly frustrated states of wanting. He didn't know what to do with it.

Sexuality, physicality, had never been much of a priority to him before, in any of his regenerations. And even now, he didn't think it was anything quite so simple as just missing sex. What he missed, keenly, was the intensity, the intimacy, which had come with it. For all his civility, the Master suddenly felt as distant as he ever had, like he'd understood the minor rejection as something more permanent, more hurtful than it had ever been intended. And the Doctor didn't entirely know how to take it back, how to bridge the gap on his own.

He kept trying.

Steeling himself a second time, the Doctor slid his hand along the icy metal, inching closer, until the tip of his little finger bumped up against the leather of the Master's glove. The Master looked down, and the Doctor froze for a second, watching him warily. His own nerves were betrayed by the visible misty stutter of his breath in the air between them. When the other man didn't react one way or another, he braced himself and hooked his finger carefully over the Master's. A childish gesture, monumental in the effort it took.

It was embarrassing, how much he wanted the relief of connection, and how little he knew about obtaining it.

The Master angled his head towards him again, gaze lowered coolly to deny eye contact. He arched an eyebrow, spoke quietly. "What are you after?"

The Doctor bit his lip as he debated, then turned more fully towards him, crowding closer. He had to relinquish the small touch to do so, and his hand trailed down to catch at the edge of the Master's coat instead. The concealing fog lent a false sense of privacy as he bent his head nearer, mouth opening but stalling for words.

"I didn't... I didn't mean never."

The Master slid a sidelong glance across to him, then down to the tentative grip on his coat. His gaze was heavy lidded, mouth parted in consideration, so that the even white line of his teeth was just visible. The other Time Lord had always been more purposeful in the use of his sexuality when he wanted to be. The Doctor inched closer, wanting rather desperately to kiss him.

"Get off me."

The rebuff was like a splash of ice water. The Doctor jerked back. He dropped his hand, frowning in confusion as the Master pushed back from the railing, physically withdrawing. He circled slowly round the Doctor, pinning him with a flat stare as he went.

"Learn to ask properly," he advised, glacial, before brushing past. He strode back the way they'd come.

Lost, somewhat affronted, the Doctor watched him go. It was only as he started to disappear from view into the damp gloom that it occurred to him to follow. Hands returned to his pockets, head ducked, he trailed after.

* * *

They got back to the room above the pub, not talking much. Elsie had lit the fireplace while they were out so the room was already stifling. The Doctor stood in front of the slanted window, unseeing, arms folded tight around himself as his thoughts turned. He listened to the Master moving quietly behind him, readying for bed. It was so domestic that he couldn't quite comprehend the disparity.

The whole walk back, he'd been considering the problem of how to ask properly.

He let out a breath, finally decisive, and shucked off his jacket. He tossed it into a corner of the room, kicked off shoes and socks so his feet were bare, and turned to face the other. The Master glanced up from where he was setting watch and accessories atop the bedside table, performing a slight doubletake as he noticed the look of determination the Doctor wore. He straightened, eyebrows raising a little in wordless question.

The Doctor stepped to the centre of the room and dropped, going down on his knees with a dull thud. His hearts were racing at the thought of being told no again. He raised his eyes to the Master, knowing his fear showed, voice catching for a moment in his throat.

"...Please."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... nearly 6k of sheer porn... I apologise???

"Please."

The Master's eyes glittered, predatory and coldly pleased, as he regarded the Doctor on the floor before him. His mouth quirked faint surprise, then satisfaction, then something like cruelty. Breathless silence stretched between them, as he let the Doctor's plea linger unanswered. Then he raised an eyebrow.

"You said no to me before."

"Once." He wondered, a bit wildly, if the Master understood there could be moods that fell between the extremes. He shifted on his knees. "Not _never_."

The Master tilted his head curiously, seeming to enjoy another few moments of considering him in silence. He was back in his element like this, comfortably in control of the situation, and the Doctor saw him relax into it.

"Please what?"

He froze, more awkward at having to make the admission than he'd felt at physically going to his knees. He shook his head a little, eyes wide, thinking surely it was obvious.

The Master just smiled narrowly, waiting on an answer.

"Please, I... want this. You." He promptly closed his eyes, feeling heat sting his face.

"What if I want to fuck you?"

It was so sudden a shift in intensity that his gaze darted up to the Master in surprise, then quickly back down to the floorboards between them. He let out a controlled breath, hearts skipping excitement and nerves. They hadn't done that yet, in this new tentative arrangement between them, but he'd been expecting the experience sooner or later. Had even prepared for it. He looked up again, across the room towards where his coat hung against the back of the door, bracing himself to get up. "Can I...?"

"No."

He stilled, as the Master followed the line of his gaze to the coat and walked over to it instead, shooting an inquisitive look at the Doctor before dipping his hand into the pocket. He huffed surprise at what he extracted, turning it over in his hand. The little jar of oil had a sediment of petals and herbs - for sweetness, the girl in the shop had said, as he'd stammered his way through buying it while the Master had been occupied across the road still trying on shirts.

Currently, the other man held it up, wordlessly smirking amusement.

The Doctor hitched a shoulder self-consciously. "Best I could do," he admitted. He fidgeted, hoping that would be enough demonstration of his willingness. Eagerness. The floorboards creaked slightly beneath him, hard on his knees.

The Master watched him for a few moments, turning the jar in his hands. The tip of his tongue touched briefly to his teeth in thought. "Take your clothes off," he said eventually.

Relief flashed through the Doctor at the instruction, so intense he imagined for a second he was lightheaded with it. He felt as though he'd just passed a test he hadn't realised he'd been taking, and the prize was this confirmation that the Master still wanted him like this. Until this moment he hadn't quite been sure. He didn't notice he'd been holding his breath until it released in a shaky exhale, his hands quickly coming up towards his collar.

"Leave the tie on."

The Doctor arched a curious eyebrow at the addendum, but complied without comment. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it loose from his belt, then carefully eased the starched collar out from under the paisley necktie, shrugging the clothing off himself. He started to rise, pausing only to shoot a questioning glance up at the Master to see if he approved. The other man nodded, barely perceptible, and the Doctor felt a slight thrill at falling so easily back into this rhythm, this purposeful concession of control. He stood so he could undo belt and trousers and let them drop, stepping carefully out of the discarded pile and waiting for whatever came next.

Heat from the fireplace warmed his right side from shoulder to ankle, making him overly conscious of his own nakedness. The Master stood fully clothed as he examined him, looking almost bored. The Doctor felt the first prickle of embarrassment spreading across his chest under the chill attention. He wasn't hard yet, and his hands itched to cover himself as the seconds ticked by in silence, feeling vulnerable and slightly ridiculous in just the purple tie. The Master let his gaze trail slowly over him like a physical touch, invasive and judgmental, until the Doctor fidgeted in response.

Smiling at the small victory, at last the Master moved, tossing the jar of oil onto the bed and strolling closer with his hands in his pockets. He came to stand within touching distance, peering up at the Doctor with an intent expression. "And what if I want to hurt you?"

Again his heartsbeat stuttered with a strange, heady combination of fear and arousal. He understood immediately that it wasn't a question lightly asked; that the other man truly meant to cause pain if they continued. It was the closest the Master could come to asking permission, he thought. He glanced down, meeting the guarded amber eyes watching for his reaction.

"...Okay."

The Master drew a breath past his teeth, probably more of a tell than he'd intended. His hand clenched briefly at his side as though to stop some instinctive movement. He stepped back, away, moved to circle round the Doctor, lingering in his blindspot. When he spoke again, his voice was low with simmering curiosity.

"Have you ever thought about it before?"

"What?"

"Why you enjoy it. Letting me hurt you."

The Doctor felt himself blush at the blunt question. Spoken aloud like that it sounded degenerate, sordid. "You like it," he pointed out, deflecting.

The Master stepped up close behind him, the material of his suit brushing against the points of the Doctor's shoulderblades, the curve of his flank. He leaned up, so the words breezed across his ear. "I like hurting you very much. It's a lovely thing to watch." One of his hands slid around the Doctor's bare hip, fingertips pressing into the jut of bone. "But you didn't answer my question. Why do _you_ enjoy it?"

He shifted restlessly, alight with anxious anticipation. Most of his awareness was focused on the Master's hand touching him; the potential for any slight change of intent to tickle or hurt or give pleasure. He found it difficult to concentrate past. "I don't know. I don't, always."

The Master had started to tighten his grip on him in warning at the first part of the answer, but paused upon hearing the last. "Honest, at least. Maybe 'enjoy' was the wrong word, then. But you _want_ this."

The Doctor thought that had originally been intended as a statement of certainty, but he heard the questioning note in it anyway. "Yes," he answered immediately, careful to sound sure.

"Tell me why."

Again the words abandoned him and he struggled, mouth opened soundlessly. The Master's taste for this was obvious: he relished every exertion of control, it was how he interacted with the universe. More than that, he intermingled cruelty and pleasure near pathologically; it was no surprise that extended to sex.

But the Doctor didn't know how to explain why he reacted to it in the way that he did.

Slowly, the Master eased back, sliding his palm around to the small of the Doctor's back, then idly lower. His fingers cupped over the curve of his arse, his thumb trailing lazily down the cleft until the Doctor drew a sharp breath and twitched forward. The other man let go with a dismissive little smack designed to leave the sting of humiliation, and circled round to stand in front of him again. The Doctor closed his eyes, painfully aware of the erection that had risen under the unease of the Master's probing questions. He felt exposed, scrutinised, mortified. He wanted to fold his arms, make a joke, adopt a sardonic expression to hide behind - but he suspected that would rather defeat the purpose of the exercise. The Master wanted to witness every moment of his discomfort.

"You really don't know? Or you just don't want to say?"

He swallowed, shook his head helplessly. "I don't know."

Hazel eyes watched him, scanning intently across his face like he could detect the lie. At last he seemed satisfied, nodding as though to confirm the correct answer. "That's alright. I don't need you to understand. Just do what you're told."

The Master shrugged off his suit jacket and moved to drape it over the back of the chair. He took his time, lingering as he unfastened the cufflinks on his shirtsleeves and pulled loose his tie, setting them down as well. His hands went to his belt buckle, and the Doctor watched as he opened it, slid loose the belt, and folded the leather strap over into a loop in a practiced motion. He held it at his side as he turned back, his intent obvious.

The Doctor's hands curled anxiously at his sides, eyes fixed on the belt, remembering the last time it had been used on him.

The Master moved to sit on the edge of the bed, setting the looped belt carefully next to him atop the covers, near the jar of oil. He tipped his head in invitation. "Come here."

The Doctor stepped awkwardly closer, fully expecting to be made to sink back down to his knees and told to suck him off. But as soon as he got near enough the Master reached up, and his reason for making him keep the tie on became apparent as he caught hold of it and pulled. The Doctor instantly lost his balance as he was yanked down, falling forward into the other man, who wasted no time manhandling him where he wanted. He used the tie in his left hand to drag him down over his lap, and the Doctor lost his breath slightly as he landed across his knees. The Master's other hand on his hip hefted him more securely into place, even as he scrambled in the precarious, somewhat undignified position. He got one hand down on the floor in front of his face, trying to push himself back upright, the other clawing at the Master's thigh to stop himself sliding forward.

"What -! _No_ , not like thi -"

The length of the tie was still held fast in the other man's hand, now turned on his neck so it was behind him and coiled tight around the Master's fist. He pulled deftly upwards on the makeshift choker and the Doctor promptly lost what remaining leverage he'd had. His fingertips came up off the floor as he struggled to lift himself enough to relieve the pressure on his throat. His bare feet slid as he frantically tried to figure out whether straightening or bending his legs made it easier to gasp a breath, unable to rise with the Master applying forceful pressure to the middle of his back. He was held in the position as the seconds slid by with excruciating slowness. The Master's knee pressed up into his stomach, all of his weight resting there, making it yet harder to drag a decent breath.

At last, leisurely, the Master eased him back down. The Doctor quickly put his hand on the floor again, letting his head hang slightly in relief as he tried to catch his breath. The hand on his back became gentle, petting soothingly.

"Are you going to keep arguing?"

Infuriated by the patronising tone, he nevertheless clenched his jaw and managed to control the snappish response he wanted to give, instead muttering sullenly, " _No_."

There was a pause as the other man waited, and then issued a sigh. "No, what?"

The Doctor dropped his head further, both exasperated and defeated. "...No, Master." It was always a struggle, saying it the first time. Just a name, but spoken in this context - any context, really - they both knew why the Master made him use it.

The hand on his back caressed indulgently down his spine in praise. "I still love when you use my name," he murmured. "Do it more often." His fingertips drifted towards the Doctor's upturned arse, blunt nails scraping lightly across his skin.

The Doctor closed his eyes, burning with humiliation at the position he'd so abruptly been trapped in. He was completely on display, unable even to look up and see what the Master was doing or how he was reacting. Blood was rushing to his head, making it difficult to think clearly, and his cock was trapped tight against the Master's thigh, harder than ever, betraying exactly how much he was getting off on the treatment.

"Since I seem to know more about what you want and why you want it than you do, Doctor, I suggest you stop being such an obstinate _brat_ and show some gratitude."

He scoffed annoyance, busy trying to push himself higher. "I'm supposed to be _grateful_ for thi -?"

The Master's open palm cracked down against the flesh of his arse. He should have expected it, really, but somehow it still shocked him silent. His breath stuttered, more incredulous than hurt, and he stared wide eyed at the floorboards. The hand came down again, hard and precise against the same spot, and a quiet stunned sound escaped his mouth. A third time and the Doctor squirmed in his lap, hips jerking forward, unsure if he was trying to get away or find friction against the other man's thigh. He was panting suddenly, pulses pounding in his wrists and temple and throat, in the stinging skin of his arsecheek.

" _Yes_ ," the Master hissed pointedly. "You are." He took a slow breath then, relaxing and adjusting his posture on the edge of the mattress. He parted his legs so the Doctor was spread more fully across them, and a hand on the back of the Doctor's head pushed him none too gently further down towards the floor. The change brought his arse up higher, more easily accessible. The tie unraveled from around the other man's hand and draped down across the floorboards. As the Doctor watched with disbelief, the Master moved his shoe to pin the material fast beneath his heel, trapping him in place. Indignity flooded through him as he instinctively tried to move away and couldn't.

The faint clink of the belt buckle being picked up from the bed made him freeze, however. He'd forgotten, for a few moments, what the Master intended to do to him. Now his heartsbeat immediately sped with fright. He remembered the pain of the last time they'd done this, the visceral memory having been lashed into him. The loop of leather traced along the back of his thigh and he flinched, breathing hard through his nose, fingers clenched against the Master's shin. Sweat was already prickling across the back of his neck, the hollow of his spine.

The Master stilled, apparently noticing the strength of his anticipatory reaction. The Doctor felt him lean down across him, comforting weight, and fingers smoothed through his hair with easy familiarity. "Relax." He kept his voice low and steady and certain, and the Doctor fixed on it. "You're fine. I know exactly what you can take, remember. You only have to lie there and take it."

There was something wrong with him, he was sure, that he'd actively sought this out. His humiliation and fear and sparking outrage were all real; he couldn't explain how they combined in such a way to leave him squirming with useless want at the mere suggestion of approval from the other man.

Then the belt snapped down the back of his thigh at full strength and all traces of comfort were gone. He cried out at the sudden shock of pain, unprepared for a second ruthless lash to come immediately after. Despite himself, he struggled. The Master's heel ground down on the end of the tie to keep him in place, his hand firm on the back of the Doctor's neck like he was holding a misbehaving pet by the scruff. The threaded edge of the belt trailed over the stinging marks he'd inflicted while he waited for the Doctor to go still - then he seemed to lose patience and promptly brought it down hard again, and then again, licking hot pain across his arsecheek, the outside of his thigh, the back of one knee.

The Doctor couldn't catch his breath enough to let out the guttural noise of protest trapped somewhere in his throat. He gasped voicelessly under the sudden onslaught, writhing, fingers clenched trembling in the material of the other man's trouser leg. He could feel the Master getting hard against him.

"Stop -!"

The belt cracked across the top of his arse, making his voice break halfway through the bitten-off plea. At last the Master paused, breathing harder himself. The Doctor let out a wounded sound and slumped, shaking. He ducked his head, eyes squeezed shut against the bright, throbbing pain now coursing through him. There'd been no gradual build up to the sudden level of sensation, and he felt stunned by it, left reeling.

"I like you like this," the Master admitted, voice quiet, a bit breathless. "Like the sounds you make." He shifted, proving as much as his hardened cock pressed against the Doctor's ribs where he draped across his lap.

The Doctor choked, not knowing how to respond in a way that wouldn't earn more pain. He stayed silent and tried to slow his frantic breathing. It must have been the right choice, because he heard the clink of the belt being placed somewhere on the bed behind him and let himself go heavy with relief. The Master's hand returned to his arse, groping over the fresh welts.

"Can't wait to hear what sounds you make while I fuck you."

The Doctor bit his lip, unable to parse the complicated reaction the words caused in him. His heartsbeat leaped nervously, even as a heated flash of arousal returned interest to his flagging erection. He moved his hips slowly, nudging his cock against the Master's leg in wordless, hesitant encouragement.

Above him, there was the sound of the jar unscrewing. He gasped at the cold of it being set atop his back, bit down on sudden fury at the minor indignity. There was a lengthy pause, and then the Master's fingers were sliding into the intimate space between his legs, smearing oil. The Doctor twitched forward at the unfamiliar contact, grabbing the other man's knee to steady himself. He felt the pad of the Master's finger circle indulgently around the pucker of his entrance, back and forth, easing the liquid into him.

"Have you done this before?"

Still trying to regain himself, it took a moment to understand the question. "Not in this body," he said at last, realising that was what the other Time Lord was asking. His voice sounded hoarse and thready even to his own ears.

"Really?" The Master stilled, apparently surprised. "Not even with the Freak?"

The Doctor ignored the customary insult, baring his teeth in a weak grin. "Jealous," he accused, vicious.

One of the Master's fingers pushed into him all the way without pausing. The Doctor swore, shocked by the strange discomfort of the intrusion. He wriggled, trying to get distance but trapped against the other man's thigh.

"He was sweet on you," the Master clarified, sounding annoyed. "I just assumed you'd added him to the harem."

Breathless, the Doctor shook his head. "Wasn't like that."

"Immaculate infatuation, how charming." He moved his finger in and out, working the tight rim of muscle loose with quick pragmatism. The Doctor flinched as a second fingertip nudged up against him sooner than he'd have liked. "So does that make me your first? Again?"

If he'd been in a slightly stronger position to do so, the Doctor would have rolled his eyes at the vanity of the question. As it was, he huffed a sigh. "Sure, if that's -" The two fingers pushed into him, with all the self-assurance of claiming territory. He ducked his head on a groan.

"Good." The Master circled his fingers in him, withdrew and pressed in again, insistently loosening him. It wasn't quite painful, but invasive and uncomfortable. Then the tips of his fingers curled down, just grazing a spot inside him that lit the pleasure centres of his brain. The Doctor jerked, shuddered, bucked forward against the Master's leg in surprise. As though that one moment was all he was prepared to allow for the time being, though, the Master immediately slid his fingers free. The slight weight of the jar disappeared from his back. The Master let go of his neck, lifted his shoe from the tie, and pushed at the Doctor's shoulder to prompt him to move.

The Doctor slid tiredly down onto his knees, suppressing a flinch as the skin on the back of his legs flared pain at the movement. He felt unbalanced, unsteady, letting his head tip back for a moment so his throat was bared. The Master was leaning forward, watching him, and he caught the other man's eyes dilate before he looked purposefully away.

"Lie on the bed."

He rose with shaky movements, limbs feeling as though they weren't entirely under his own control as he crawled across the mattress and dropped himself in the middle of the bed, wincing as the material of the covers pressed against the lash marks. The Master stood and finished getting undressed with purposeful slowness, gracefully kicking off shoes and shrugging out of the clothes he still wore. His eyes remained fixed on the Doctor as he did so, seemingly in deliberation of how to proceed.

"Spread your legs."

Climbing onto the bed with him, the Master settled between them as he did so, kneeling comfortably. His hand reached across the sheets to retrieve the belt again and the Doctor's gaze fixed on it, feeling his stomach turn with dread and surprise. He'd thought that part was done.

"Keep them open for me, just like that." The Master's fingers ghosted over the line of his cock, making him twitch upward eagerly. They moved outward over the tendon stretching across the hollow of his thigh, pressing the limb flat to the bed in preparation. He adjusted his grip on the belt, readying himself.

The Doctor bit his lip. Sparking with nerves and anticipation, he couldn't help it - he jerked his legs back together, closed tight.

The Master raised his eyebrows, regarding him over the top of his knees. He sounded faintly disappointed. "You've been good this far. Don't ruin it now."

The Doctor half expected him to take the choice away, to pry his legs open again and hold him like that. He'd have little trouble doing it, as every muscle in his body felt twitchy and rebellious, too weak to put up any real resistance. But the Master didn't lay a finger on him, just continued to watch with calm expectation - waiting for the Doctor to do it himself, he realised; to willingly splay himself open and unprotected.

He shuddered defeat as he finally did so, one hand coming up to cover his eyes with shame. His hearts pounded as he waited like that, tense, listening intently for any suggestion of movement.

"You look perfect like this."

He didn't feel perfect. He felt obscene. The skin across the back of his thighs and arse was practically glowing with stinging heat, red and bruised and unflattering. The slick of the oil had cooled in the air, and every slight shift reminded him of how exposed and open he was already. His cock lay flushed against his stomach, traitorously leaking arousal across himself.

The belt came down against the inside of his thigh without warning, making him shout and rise almost off the bed in violent reaction. His hand immediately came away from his face to claw desperately at the sheets, spine arching up at the shock of pain. His knees pressed back together in instinctive self-defence, and it took conscious effort not to curl in on himself entirely. He gasped a breath, frantically telling himself to relax, to accept, to be good at this.

The Master watched intently all the while, not instructing, waiting to see what he'd do on his own. Seconds stretched hazily as the Doctor struggled to get himself back under control. When he reluctantly let his legs fall open again, the muscles in his thighs were trembling with the effort it took, sweat standing out on his skin.

The Master looked unspeakably pleased, eyes glittering approval as he traced the pink line of the new strap mark as though admiring his work. He kept his gaze fixed on the Doctor's as his hand drifted lower, stroking his cock in brief reward, and then down towards his slicked entrance to push back inside. Two fingers slid into him without difficulty, and this time he started to press in a third. The Doctor drew a steadying breath, averting his eyes at the strange intimacy, horrendously conscious that the Master had yet to relinquish the belt in his other hand. The fingers working him slid fully inside, moved indulgently in and out. The Doctor flinched at the audible liquid sound the oil made in the quiet room, at the alien sensation of being probed and stretched and loosened.

After a minute or so, the Master stilled, three of the fingers of his left hand pushed securely inside him. He was smirking, and the Doctor knew exactly what was coming even before he raised the belt and lazily lashed it over the soft skin of his inner thigh again.

He let out a bark of protest, muscles spasming, unable to keep himself relaxed. The Master let out a shocked sound as well, trailing off into a groan as the tight ring of muscle clenched down around his fingers. He surged up slightly on his knees as though he couldn't stop himself, eyes dark with his own arousal. The belt came down a second time, high up on the inside of his leg, and the Doctor fairly screamed at the shock of pain. He twisted, trying to get away. The Master bit his lip in momentary concentration, crooked his fingers, and then he was pressing up mercilessly against his prostate.

Confused pleasure pooled through the Doctor, more intense for the relief that came with it. He arched, panted, writhed uselessly between the two sensations, completely unable to decide what he was reacting to. A whining sound escaped his throat, involuntary, growing louder and more ragged as the Master continued to circle his fingers.

"Fuck, _look_ at you."

He forced his eyes open. The Master looked like he hadn't quite intended to speak, a slightly stunned expression on his face. His eyes moved hungrily over every inch of him, predatory and appreciative. His own enjoyment was evident in the erection that rose shamelessly against his stomach - and at the sight the Doctor felt _want_ flash through him, powerful and indiscriminate.

"Please." He reached out, pulling at the sheets, hips rocking down against the probing fingers.

The Master's gaze sharpened, head cocking to one side with sudden interest. "Please what?"

"Please, _please_." He repeated it like a slurred chant, meaningless, unsure what he was even asking for. Please stop, please more, please let him come. Anything, anything at all. He felt half delirious with conflicting needs. "Please, I want, I want -"

The belt snapped impatiently down yet again and he cried out, flinching away.

"Please, _what_?"

"Fuck me!" It emerged as a sob, desperate and devastated, his voice breaking on the words.

As though he'd just been waiting to hear it, the belt promptly slithering off the edge of the bed as the Master discarded it. His fingers withdrew carelessly from the Doctor, and he paused to swipe the excess oil on them over his own cock in haphazard preparation. Breathing hard, the Doctor could do nothing but let himself be manipulated as the Master dragged him down the sheets, half into his lap, before leaning further over him. His hands on the back of the Doctor's thighs pushed his legs up, bending them high towards the mattress, curving his spine.

The Doctor grunted in discomfort at the new position, flushing slightly with the indignity of it, trying to angle a look down as the other man's cock nudged against him. Again he found himself with absolutely no leverage to do anything but lie there and accept the slow, steady push into his body. Even with preparation it suddenly felt like too much and he grabbed at the Master's shoulders, scratching in his panic, head thrown back as he strained against the blunt intrusion.

The Master finally seemed to have lost his own steadfast composure. As he sank into him he hissed, shuddered, jerked his hips down to bury himself deeper. His breath came in quick little gusts against the Doctor's cheek, eyes closed tight in pleasure, a low wordless sound escaping from between his teeth. Fully seated, he held himself like that for a few moments, grinding his hips forward in slow circles. The Doctor was too pinned down to move; he gasped helplessly at the sensation of being filled, trying to spread his legs further to accommodate.

The Master eased back, sliding out by inches, and then thrust forward at an angle that slammed against the bundle of nerves inside him. The Doctor yelped, arching his back in shock. He'd expected a moment to adjust, but the Master immediately began to fuck him in earnest, pistoning his hips in a steady rhythm and ensuring he hit the same spot each time. The Doctor turned his head against the sheets, hardly able to take it, clinging to the other man with shaking hands. The bruised flesh on the back of his legs ached with every thrust against him, pleasure pulsing in direct counterpoint. His cock throbbed needily, untouched. He wanted desperately to stroke himself off, but couldn't get a hand down between them with the position he was in. Precome leaked from him so copiously that it oozed down his belly, smeared between them.

Breath coming fast and urgent now, the Master lowered himself down, lying heavier on top of him and working a hand underneath his back. With no further warning, he found the end of the tie and pulled, and the Doctor gagged as the material tightened round his throat, making it impossible to move or stretch without choking himself completely. He coughed a protest, instinctively reaching up to claw at it. The Master slapped his hand away, and then his cheek in reprimand. Overwhelmed, the Doctor clenched his teeth around a weak moan as the other man thrust into him with increasing force. He wanted to struggle but couldn't, wanted to drag a desperate breath but couldn't. There was no part of him the Master hadn't pinned or trapped or forced exactly as he wanted it. He could only lie there and take it, exactly as instructed, powerless under the flood of endorphins and adrenaline and pleasure, the sudden lack of oxygen. He felt mindless, overcome utterly by sensation.

He came in a sudden shuddering rush, so shocked by it that it didn't occur to ask permission. His whole body jerked helplessly as he spilled across his stomach and chest, his voice rising in reaction.

His orgasm seemed to push the other man over the precipice with him. The Master continued to fuck him for a few seconds, then made a startled sound in the back of his throat and froze, buried in him as deeply as he could manage. The Doctor felt heat pulse as the other man came inside him. The Master groaned at the release, working his hips slowly through it. He brought his hand up, clumsy against the Doctor's face, holding him in place as he pressed forward to kiss him. They panted against each other, doing little more than exchanging desperate, messy breaths.

The Doctor clung to him, wrapped round him, wanting to keep him there just a while longer. But, as he got himself back under control, the Master let him go. He eased off him carefully, allowing the Doctor to unfold from his pretzel shape. His cock slid free, and the Doctor winced at the sensation of feeling abruptly empty. He wanted to close his legs against it but the Master remained kneeling between them, too close to let him. They were both breathing hard, the other man obviously attempting to regain his composure, the Doctor just trying to claw back higher brain function. He was starting to shiver again despite the warmth of the room. He brought his hands up over his face, slid his fingers shakily into his hair.

The Master watched him curiously, head cocked again like he was cataloguing the new reaction.

"Stop staring at me," the Doctor muttered, voice muffled behind his hands, "and get up here. Please."

The other Time Lord blinked in surprise, and then huffed amusement. "Of course you're a cuddler..." Despite the gentle mockery he did as asked, shifting himself to crawl higher on the bed and flopping down against the pillows. He kicked the rumpled sheets away, settling himself, then glanced over somewhat awkwardly.

The Doctor turned toward him with more gratitude than he'd intended, readily pressing into the warmth of his side and hiding his face against the other man's neck. The Master froze, seeming unsure of himself for the first time. After a few seconds' pause, his hands settled lightly against the Doctor's back. They lay in silence, waiting for four racing heartbeats to slow. The Doctor continued shivering with increasing force, entirely unable to make it stop. Finally the Master made a decisive noise and hauled him further against his chest, ridding any last hesitance.

"You were always dramatic."

"Shut up."

The Master brought his hands further up, hesitated briefly, and then took hold of the disheveled tie where it trailed down the Doctor's back. He undid the knot with a deft movement, slid the material off him and tossed it away across the bed. Unseen, the Doctor twitched a smile at the gesture. He pressed closer, slipped an arm over the other man's waist and closed his eyes. Already he could feel himself sinking towards exhaustion, lulled by the comfort of body heat and skin contact. He was on the verge of unconsciousness when the Master spoke again, his voice drifting through the haze of encroaching sleep.

"Shall I tell you why I think you like it?" he murmured at length, as though confiding a secret. "Being hurt, I mean. Doing what you're told. I think it makes you feel _small_."

He blinked his eyes half open, unfocused. "Mm?"

"What is it they call you? The _Oncoming Storm_." The Master held him tighter, chest moving in a huff of soft laughter. "The universe's self-appointed overseer. The highest authority, the judicial executioner. The capricious little god. You've been the most dangerous thing in any room since you razed Gallifrey."

The Doctor's breath caught at the sudden accusation, coming fully alert, but already the Master's hands stroked down his spine to ease him past it.

"That's not..."

"Shh-sh-sh, it's fine. You're allowed to enjoy it." The smile was audible in his voice, and his now gentle fingers trailed upwards again, into his hair. "And you're right, to be fair. You're definitely not the most dangerous thing in the room anymore."


	5. Chapter 5

For once they stayed in bed through late morning, lazy and sated as pale sunlight streamed through the window, low-burning embers in the grate warming the room. The Doctor sat propped against the headboard, attempting to read a book he'd picked up from the market the day before. The Master lounged atop him like an overgrown housecat showing a rare moment of tolerant affection. He was dozing, a sprawl of unconscious weight against his chest which grumbled and nudged at him whenever he moved too much, sheets draped over him haphazardly from the waist down.

The Doctor smiled wryly as he managed to flip a page with some difficulty, supposing he'd gotten what he wanted in the end, regarding intimacy. As always, he half-wondered how long the other man's tolerance for the situation would persist this time, but for the moment the Doctor was content to enjoy it.

A noise in the hallway was the only forewarning he got. He looked up over the top of his glasses, startled, as the door opened. Elsie froze in the threshold, a little bundle of fresh linens piled in her arms. She looked equally astonished, clearly not having expected them to actually be present for her morning tidy. They blinked at each other for a few seconds, uncertain about quite how to proceed. Seemingly against her will, her eyes flicked down to where the Master was draped across him, colour visibly flushing her neck and chest.

_Sorry_! She mouthed it silently, flinching, half turning away and then dithering in the doorway. She dared a glance back at him, holding up the clean sheets with a little questioning expression.

The Doctor continued to stare, and then shrugged helplessly. He nodded for lack of any idea what else to do.

She moved to set them gingerly on the foot of the bed, evidently changed her mind midway through the motion, and swerved quickly to set the folded pile on the wooden chair closest to the door. She was blushing furiously now, and to his great bemusement looked seconds from laughter. Without another word she fled the room in a bustle of skirts, the door closing behind her with a gentle snip.

He continued to stare at the spot where she'd been for a moment, at a loss, and then tried to resettle himself with a disgruntled little shift, frowning back down at the pages of his book.

"...You let a human in here," the Master murmured without opening his eyes, evidently not as asleep as he'd been assuming, "while we were like this. Awfully brave of you."

The Doctor again glanced over the top of his glasses in consideration, catching the slight double meaning. "Why, did you mind?"

The other man stretched leisurely against him, making himself more comfortable. "Suppose not," he admitted, eventually. "She was the one who got the eyeful. Did she look suitably scandalised, at least?"

"Yes." He smiled, managing again to turn a page with one free hand, the other occupied trailing shapes against the Master's shoulder. "And I think a bit disappointed to find you sleep like this, not hanging from the rafters shrouded in darkness like the gothic villain she thinks you are."

The Master snorted laughter despite himself. "Aren't we all."

"Dunno. Quite like this arrangement."

"Oh don't start. You're ruining my nap."

"You're ruining my book."

Content, the Master drifted back down into dozing, and the Doctor idly drew patterns across his skin as he read.

* * *

The sun was bright and sharp in the clear November sky, warming the air to a tolerable temperature. They sat at a small table outside a local cafe, bundled in coats and gloves and with cups of hot tea and coffee cradled in hand. There was a plate of neatly baked pastries on the table between them that they occasionally picked from. The Doctor watched the passersby as he sipped from the steaming drink, rather enjoying the afternoon.

Ultimately, they'd made no progress to speak of in locating his TARDIS, nor contacting Torchwood, nor even solving the mystery that was Clara - but despite those minor details, his mood was up. He'd been stranded in worse situations, honestly, and it was difficult to feel real urgency when this was not unlike the tourist travelling they'd been intending on anyway, if a little less breathtaking. At some point he'd relaxed into the experience, and, whether he admitted it or not, he suspected so had the Master. At some point he'd actually started to quite enjoy himself.

He stretched in his chair, body aching faintly at the movement. The lash marks across his legs were still painful, making him fidget restlessly even more than usual. He was caught between being put out by the discomfort and liking the reminder. The Master eyed him knowingly over his cup of tea, until the Doctor purposely looked away with a grin.

In doing so, his eyes caught a flash of bright colour and he blinked with recognition.

"Hey. Isn't that your friend?"

The Master followed his gaze and quickly spotted what the Doctor had: the little red haired thief. She was on the other side of the street from them, moving in their direction and clearly on the trail of a smartly dressed woman who seemed entirely oblivious to her presence.

"Oh here we go," the Master remarked. "Better luck this time."

"She's going to get herself arrested," the Doctor muttered, oddly concerned. "Or hurt."

"Then she should get better at it."

"She's a _kid_."

They watched as the girl drew closer to her mark, then spooked away again as a man crossing the pavement passed too close. She hesitated, glanced around, hurried after the woman.

"Oh this is painful to watch," the Master muttered, sipping his tea and leaning forward to get a better look.

The would-be thief seemed to be closing in on making an attempt when the woman she was following paused to cross the street, moving right by them and making their observation of the whole performance rather obvious. The girl caught sight of their table and froze, clearly recognising them. The Doctor supposed it had been a rather memorable encounter. She hesitated there across the street, apparently unsure about how to proceed.

He raised a hand, offered a short wave.

That seemed to decide it for her and she started to trot towards them, previous target promptly forgotten. The Master kicked him under the table.

"Got away from the soldiers then," she greeted without preamble in her piping Irish accent.

"We did," he confirmed, conversationally. "Trying to find them again, though. Don't suppose you know where we could start?"

She looked distinctly sceptical at that, putting her grubby hands on the edge of the cafe table and peering up at him. "Why'd you want to go doing that?"

"They have something of ours," the Master drawled, sipping his tea. " _Stole_ it from us - can you imagine?"

She frowned warily at him, before looking back at the Doctor. "Dunno where they are, but don't reckon you should look for them." She grew a bit distracted, then, her eyes fixed on the plate of pastries as she spoke.

The Doctor nudged it towards her wordlessly.

She practically snatched one from the top, then a second and third that got shoved into her pockets as she took a chunk out of the first.

The Master shot him a look. "Don't _feed it_. It'll just keep coming back..." Despite the scathing commentary, he watched without any real protest as the girl scoffed down the food, and she didn't seem to take much offence at the barb.

"What's your name?" the Doctor asked, if only to deter the other man's dismissive address.

"Aoife," she said easily, spraying crumbs.

"Nice to meet you, Aoife. John Smith. This is, uh, Harry Saxon."

Looking bored by the pleasantries, the Master put his elbow on the table, leaning forward and planting his chin in his palm. He adopted a wide-eyed, falsely sincere expression. "Aoife? Has anyone ever told you you're a truly terrible thief?"

That earned a real glare, bright eyes flashing. "M'not."

"Are a bit, though, aren't you?"

The Doctor sighed, giving him a tired look. "Can you not?"

"Am not!" Aoife insisted again, looking like she very much wanted to stamp her foot.

The Master shrugged helplessly, raising his eyebrows. Chin still resting in his hand, he slid a glance around the street, landing quickly on a fellow patron of the cafe sitting a few tables away from their own. "Go on then, give us a show."

She followed his attention, face setting immediately into determination.

The Doctor leaned forward, lowering his voice as he hissed warningly at both of them. "No! No, don't, don't even -"

But she was already sidling away, moving as though she was examining the content of the nearby empty tables, looking for more scraps of unguarded food.

The Doctor spared a harried glance at the other Time Lord. "Why?!"

The Master hitched a shoulder lazily, amusement curling his mouth behind his fingers. "Fun."

They both watched, trying to be inconspicuous, as Aoife moved to the table behind the man they'd picked out. He was occupied reading a folded over newspaper, smoking and sipping at a coffee. She eyed him from behind, and with a final cautious glance around for witnesses, slipped her hand quickly in and out of the pocket of his coat. Just like that.

She wandered back, while the Master exchanged a glance with the Doctor, faintly surprised. As she rejoined them, they clustered round the table conspiratorially, voices hushed.

"What'd you get?"

She put a set of keys in the middle of the table, looked up at the blond Time Lord defiantly. "M'not a bad thief."

He regarded the prize dubiously, tipping his head from side to side as though weighing a judgement. "Better than your last attempt, I suppose. Not much to show for it, though." He picked up the keys, dangled them from a finger critically. "What exactly are we supposed to do with these?"

She shrugged, unconcerned, helping herself to the last pastry. "Didn't say what you wanted me to take, did you."

He snorted. "Yeah, my mistake. Next time I'll -"

"Oi!"

Their heads bobbed up from the little huddle in alarm, all turning to see the man a few tables away glaring back at them. He was patting down his pockets, and could clearly see from where he stood the keys held up between them.

There was a beat of awkward silence.

"...Aoife, how much of a runner are you?"

The Doctor looked back in confusion at the question, just as the Master deftly tossed the keys into the air. He clapped his hands around them automatically as they came down - and watched in bemusement, too slow to react, as the girl and the Master scrambled from their positions at the table and darted from the cafe seating area. The Time Lord's ridiculous laughter drifted after him as he shot a look back, delighted by the meaningless bit of chaos he'd created, and then he was gone as he and Aoife raced off together down the street, much to the astonishment of those they passed.

The Doctor belatedly shot to his feet, chair scraping against the pavement - only to find himself face to face with the furious human. He fell back a step, gingerly holding up the keys. "Uhm. Sorry about that. Just... pass these back..." Smiling winningly, he carefully edged round the man - and as soon as he was able, took off after the other two, wondering with fleeting incredulity how this had become his existence.

But he was laughing too, he realised.

* * *

Out of boredom and lack of anything more pressing to occupy their time, they took a hansom cab to a music hall in the East End one evening. The Master had been suffering from the sound of the drums again, and the Doctor had learned by now that music and activity were as effective remedies as anything.

So they sat in the back row of the Shoreditch Empire, inconspicuous, watching the acts and the audience alike. It was livelier than he'd expected, people chatting and eating and smoking at their respective tables, clapping and calling out to the acts on stage. A couple of women he thought might be well-dressed prostitutes moved through the crowd, trying their luck with some of the clusters of men around the room. A musical cabaret performed on stage, all feathers and lace and comedically exaggerated movement. The humans around them joined in raucously with the chorus every time, and erupted in excitement whenever a dancer flashed her shin. The Master shot him an exhausted look over the rim of a gin and tonic, but he was smiling slightly.

After that came a magic act which apparently involved smuggling a disheveled looking dove from out of the magician's sleeve (it was released with great ceremony, and proceeded to flap around the rafters for the remainder of the show). Then a comedian (who the Master would have heckled, except the rest of the audience beat him to it), another musical act, and a psychic who claimed to be capable of reading minds (when he asked for volunteers to participate, the Master's hand shot up so fast he nearly knocked over his drink, mean anticipation writ clear across his face, and the Doctor had to elbow him until he relented).

A lone singer was just beginning the slow, opening notes of her performance when the other man leaned close, hand sliding over his thigh beneath the table, voice a low rumble in his ear. "Come outside with me."

They left their drinks half finished, slipping unnoticed from the back of the hall like guilty teenagers. The Master led him away from the main entrance, both of them laughing and whispering as they pulled each other through back corridors used by porters and waitstaff, and out of a door at the back of the building. They found themselves in a narrow alley, dim and empty, which opened up onto the main street far enough away to feel momentarily private. The Doctor turned, already reaching as the Master stepped into him.

Kissing was still the exception more often than the rule, too open an acknowledgement of affection for the Master to always be comfortable with. But he kissed him now, hands grasping at his waist, both of them clumsy and stumbling as the Master guided him back towards the stone wall and leaned up to catch his mouth.

Despite his awareness of their somewhat public surroundings, the Doctor relaxed automatically into the contact. The Master licked into him, tongue curling against the roof of his mouth in the way he knew he liked and the Doctor dragged a breath in response, hands coming up to grasp at the other man's shoulders, the back of his neck. The Master pressed bodily closer, crowding into him until their chests and stomachs and hips aligned, warm through the fabric of clothing. The Doctor made a soft sound as the Master's hands tightened on his waist, the tips of his fingers suddenly dipping down beneath the edge of his belt.

He laughed slightly, turning his head to break the kiss. "Stop - we can't do this here."

Undeterred, the Master bit at the corner of his jaw, the side of his neck. "Why? Afraid to be seen with me?"

"This isn't - We need - Will you stop?!"

He'd given up trying to get past his belt, instead skimming his fingers tantalisingly down the front of his trousers, trying to stir a reaction. He grinned against his throat, pressing his teeth into the skin. "Oh keep going, I like when you put up a fuss."

The Doctor huffed another guilty laugh, gasping a little as the Master sucked a bruise above his pulse. His eyes drifted closed to better concentrate on the sensation and he widened his stance to steady himself, let the other man push his thigh between his legs.

"We should - should go home."

The Master kissed him again, forceful and proprietary, stopping the words. The Doctor slid one hand up into the blond hair, clinging to him as the Master trapped him against the wall. He was reacting despite himself, caution slipping away as they moved against each other.

"Can't wait that long," the other man murmured against his mouth. "You could go down for me right here. Get on your knees in some dirty little back street, make yourself useful."

"I'm not doing that," he said quickly, even as his hips rocked forward against the other, a flash of heat going through him at the thought. "You're going to get us arrested."

"Spoilsport." The Master pulled back a little, eyes raised in challenge, his palm hot and firm against the Doctor's rapidly hardening cock. "Fine, but I want -"

The back door of the music hall opened with a clatter. Both Time Lords looked towards it sharply, startled by the interruption, as a pair of humans tumbled out into the alleyway, clearly with the same idea they'd had. The man was laughing, visibly drunk, his arm around the shoulders of one of the prostitutes who'd been circling the hall earlier.

The moment slowed as both couples caught sight of each other, and several realisations transpired at once.

The first, belatedly, was that they should have sonic-locked the door behind them on the way out. Too late now. The Doctor's gaze flicked quickly over the humans, registering in a second the odd sight of a multitude of cuts across the man's face and hands, the expression of appalled shock slowly dawning on his face, and strangely enough that he looked familiar. Instantly, the Doctor started mentally scanning through recent encounters, trying to place -

"Torchwood." The Master pushed back from him, straightening in eager alertness.

Bemused, the Doctor realised he was right. The man was the same soldier who'd chased them through the streets during their first encounter with Torchwood. Again the seconds stretched with indecision, as all parties tried to figure out what their reactions were supposed to be. The human man wavered, seemingly aware that he was supposed to try and detain them, and apparently equally unsure how to go about it in his current state. His eyes widened with something that looked increasingly like fear as he stared between the two Time Lords - and unfortunately for him, it seemed both the soldier and the Master realised one very important fact at the same moment: this time, he wasn't armed.

The Torchwood soldier turned on his heel and started to run, just as the Master bounded towards him. The girl gave a little yelp of fright and scrambled to get out of the way as they darted past her. The Doctor swore, shoving away from the wall and going after them.

It wasn't a difficult chase. The Master caught him before he got anywhere near the main street, getting a grip on the back of his coat and hauling him backwards. The man came round swinging for him, but it was clumsy with inebriation and the Time Lord managed to duck away. He quickly fisted his hands in the soldier's collar and used it to drag him off balance, grappling him backwards until he hit the wall and the Master could hold him in place.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow as he caught up to them, unaccustomed to seeing the other Time Lord lower himself to engaging in physical fights. It spoke to the extent of his current frustration.

"Get the fuck off me!"

The Master snarled, his forearm pressed up under the man's jaw. "Where the hell is my TARDIS?"

"Sorry - _your_ TARDIS?!"

They both ignored him.

"Fuck you, mate." The soldier bared his teeth, all sneering bravado. He jerked his chin to indicate the alleyway. "What are you going to do? Nothing here to wave your little wand at, no bastard windows to bring down on me this time."

The Master gave a short, unpleasant laugh. "That's fine. I don't need props."

And before the Doctor could even think to intervene, the other Time Lord raised his hand and placed his fingertips against the man's temple. The Doctor darted forward in horror, reaching to stop him - but it was too late. He felt the psychic connection initiate as the Master closed his eyes and the Torchwood soldier twitched and shivered in response. His face went slack, mouth falling open, eyes wide and unseeing.

The Doctor hissed dread, yanking his hands back so he didn't touch either of them. He cast a guilty glance both ways along the alley, checking to see if anyone could see them. The girl from the music hall had quickly and silently made herself scarce, and for now at least there was no one else in the vicinity. He turned back urgently, leaning as close to the other Time Lord as he dared and speaking with quiet, level anger.

"Stop it. Let him go, now."

If the Master heard him, he didn't deign to respond. Eyes closed, his face moved with fleeting expressions as he rifled through the human's undefended thoughts; a mild frown, quick smirk, scrunched nose. He was taking his time, thorough and skilled and evidently showing off. In contrast, it was clear the soldier was suffering under the strain of the connection. Tendons stood out in his neck, a sheen of sweat already visible across his skin. As the Doctor watched, blood dripped sluggishly from his nose. His pressure was up, body trying to fight off the invasion with no real capacity to do so.

"I mean it, stop. This is too much."

The Master idly tipped his head like he was considering a curiosity, and under the light touch of his hand the human shuddered helplessly.

"Master! _Enough_!"

He blinked his eyes open in surprise, looking questioningly at the Doctor. At last he lowered his arm, and the human promptly slumped like his strings had been cut. His eyes rolled up and he slid down the wall in an ungainly pile of limbs, going still.

Pushing past the offended Time Lord, the Doctor dropped to his knees and reached out to press careful fingers against the man's neck to check for a pulse. It was racing but strong. He ducked his head in vague relief, although it was short-lived. Humans weren't built to withstand the kind of invasive psychic assault the Master had inflicted; there was no telling the full extent of any incidental damage until he woke.

"What the hell was _that_?"

"Oh don't be so dramatic." The Master looked genuinely perplexed by his reaction, frowning down at him. "You wanted to know about Torchwood, I found out about Torchwood. Thank me any time, by the way."

The Doctor shook his head wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak for the moment. He tipped the soldier's head back, thumbing open an eyelid and wincing at the bloodshot whites. There was no response from the human, and when he let go his chin slumped back down to his chest again, out cold.

"See? He's fine."

"This is not _fine_!" He got unsteadily to his feet, glaring. "You can't just do this!"

The Master shrugged slightly, hands in his pockets. "Why not? Didn't break any ground rules. He's still alive." He glanced down, nudged the man gently with the shiny toe of his shoe.

"In what state?!"

"Oh don't do the moral outrage bit. I'm not the only one who took a shot at him." He gestured down at the human, indicating the still healing cuts across his face from when the Doctor had shattered the windows the last time they'd encountered him.

"Could you please just... _fake_ having a conscience for a minute?"

"Conscience is another word for cowardice. Conscience is just the trade-name of the firm."

"Did you -" The Doctor squinted suspiciously. "Stop quoting Dorian Gray at me! I'm being serious, _I_ was trying to save us, it's not the same thing!"

The Master flicked his eyes skywards, stepping past him and starting the walk towards the mouth of the alleyway. "That was Lord Henry, you illiterate. And what exactly do you think _I_ was doing? I assure you, I don't regularly deep-dive primitive brains for my own entertainment. Everything in there felt... _sticky_ , it was awful."

The Doctor followed after him, annoyed. "No, don't do that. This was different, this was crossing a line."

"What, you've never used psychic abilities on poor defenceless humans? Never flashed your psychic paper here and there to get where you want to go, never given a persuasive little mental nudge? Oh, no, sorry - you prefer the mind-wipe, don't you? That's more your bag." The Master scoffed dismissively. "Don't speak down to me for doing exactly what you do. If anything, you're just more insidious about it."

Again he found himself momentarily struck silent, too surprised by the accuracy of the accusation to rally a decent argument. "...It's not the same thing."

"Why not?"

"I don't torture them!"

"Please, that wasn't _torture_. I promise, you'd know all about it if I'd wanted to torture him."

The Doctor grabbed his arm, pulling him to a halt. "Look, I _know_ you don't like them, and I know you don't think you did anything wrong there, but you _hurt_ -"

"Shall I tell you all about the things he and the rest of this Torchwood want to do to _you_ , Doctor?" The Master smoothly followed the change in momentum by stepping into his space, confrontational and determined. "Because I saw it in there - all that institutionalised xenophobia, all that _ambition_. Humans are a limited little species, but _my_ , have they got big ideas! They don't quite know what you are, but they know it's more than them and they _want_ it. Time Lord abilities, knowledge, technology - can you imagine what they'd do to get their grabby little hands on all of that? I can. Let me tell you, I'm almost impressed."

The Doctor blanched slightly, releasing his grip on the other man. It didn't occur to him to doubt the truth of the Master's words; he'd been around the human species long enough to know that along with startling compassion and innovation came the near limitless capacity for cruelty and vicious pragmatism. He didn't need the Master to spell out to him what some members of Torchwood would be willing to do to him and any other unfortunate alien who fell into their possession if given half the chance and reason to think they might benefit from it.

The Master shook his head, seemingly exasperated. "Come on. Let's go."

"What about -?"

"Leave him, he's fine."

The Doctor lingered another moment, looking back. Someone else from the music hall would step out soon enough, he was sure. Or the girl would brave a return. Someone would find him.

He followed after the other Time Lord, who'd already stepped out onto the pavement and was scanning the street for a cab. "Well what did you find out?"

The Master shot him a sidelong smirk. "Not so above it all, then?"

"Just tell me."

The other man let out a piercing whistle, signaling a hansom over towards them. As it slowed, he grinned at the Doctor, pleased with himself. "I know where Torchwood are hiding."

* * *

" _Scotland Yard_? Really?"

"No, what _used_ to be Scotland Yard, keep up. The police are out, moved to a building down on the docks. Either Torchwood evicted them or took advantage of a vacated building, but that's where they are now."

"Is the TARDIS there? How did they get it?"

The Master shook his head. "Our friend didn't know anything about it, but that doesn't mean it isn't. He wasn't exactly high on the food chain. His only orders were to try and arrest us that first morning we were here."

The carriage juddered to a stop and they climbed out, flipping a generous coin to the driver. The Doctor frowned as he followed the other man towards the front door of the _Rose & Crown_. "What, and then they just stopped looking? Where have they been since?"

The Master glanced back at him, amused. "Apparently we did more damaged than they were expecting - or you did, I suppose - so they've been 'reconsidering their approach'. We're under surveillance, for the time being."

The Doctor blinked, looking around like he could spot the Torchwood spies there and then. He couldn't. Disconcerted, he stepped inside. The Master gave a sneering glance to the bustling crowd of patrons, but nodded absent greeting to Elsie and Bob, heading straight for the stairs up to their room.

"I'll be up in a minute."

They'd fallen into something of a routine. The Master preferred the mornings, when there was a minimal amount of humans present to irritate him, whereas the Doctor made a point to linger a few minutes downstairs in the evenings, enjoying the proximity of people and conversation, and always taking the opportunity to ask their hosts if they'd heard anything interesting from other customers.

He took a seat at the bar. Bob set a beer in front of him, but had to serve someone else before the Doctor could ask him anything, so he resigned himself to waiting a while. He sipped his drink, idly scanning the room for new faces, listening to the chatter.

Someone sat down beside him, and he turned to see Clara perched on the next barstool.

Surprised, the Doctor considered her for a moment, remembering their conversation the last time she'd cornered him on his own. Then he glanced past her at where the Master had just disappeared up the stairs, frowning in suspicious realisation. "You're avoiding him on purpose," he accused, by way of introduction.

Clara fixed him with a deeply unimpressed stare. "He wasn't very nice to me."

"Funny, you don't strike me as being overly concerned with good manners."

She tipped her head in concession, brows quirking up. "I'll give you that, suppose." Her nose crinkled. "Fine, just don't like him. Not sure why. Do you ever just get a feeling about someone?"

Yes, in this case it was called survival instinct. The Doctor sipped from his beer, keeping the thought to himself. He found, for perhaps the first time in his lives, that he couldn't think of very much to say to her. She made him uncomfortable, he realised, to his vast disbelief. He hadn't been socially uncomfortable in about eight hundred years.

"So have you got an answer for me, yet?"

"About what?"

Anger flashed quickly across her expression. "I asked you for help."

He frowned back at her. "You didn't, actually. You just criticised me for not being the 'right version'."

"Alright. Well... I'm asking."

He looked away, across the bar to the rows of bottles and glasses. Shrugged slightly. "I don't know what you want me to do. I've got no idea why you're... remembering the future." Even as he said it he felt his curiosity try to rise, and something else in him shove it down.

"Okay, I don't get it."

He tensed imperceptibly at the abrupt declaration, knowing he was going to regret asking. "Get what?"

"You. This whole... standoffish thing. I show up all cryptic clues and dire warnings, if I do say so myself, knowing things about you I couldn't possibly know - hell, knowing things about myself, the _future_ , the _past_ , that I shouldn't know. And you just... what? Don't care?" She lay her hands palm-up on the bar, beseeching him for a reaction. "Aren't you the least bit curious?"

He didn't want to be having this conversation, frankly; felt the questions jab at him like accusations. Something irrational in him wanted to get up and walk off, just to be away. It took effort to remain seated, his expression politely neutral, fingers white-knuckled around his beer. "Sorry. Look, I've been a bit caught up, to be honest. Lost my TARDIS. Stranded. Been shot at. Nearly got arrested for pickpocketing, that was a whole thing..."

"That's a normal Tuesday for you."

The Doctor let out a surprised breath of laughter at the rather fair assessment, still avoiding her gaze. "Yeah, well, and... him, I guess." He gestured upwards, where somewhere above them the Master was in their room.

Clara's expression shifted to something wry and judgmental and sharp, but she refrained from saying anything else, just continuing to watch him.

He fidgeted, sipping his drink, wiping at the condensation. Glanced around the room, conscious of the excuses about to fall out of his mouth even as he started talking. "Been busy, is what I'm getting at. And anyway, it's a bit different for time travelers. Less urgency, you know? You're something from my future, fine, I'll get there eventually -"

"Don't do that."

It stopped him dead: the disappointment in her voice. He faltered, felt that same overwhelming urge to run.

"Don't lie. You're not as good at it as you think you are. Not yet, anyway." Her dark eyes seemed to assess him, leaning in slightly. "You can't even bring yourself to ask me anything, can you? You don't want to know. Why?"

The Doctor downed the last of his beer, setting it down and rising from the stool. "Timelines are complicated. They get tangled and messy and you really don't want to go -"

Clara stood as well, planting herself firmly in his way. "Since when do you not want to solve a mystery? You can't _stand_ not knowing things. Anything! I once watched you rip apart a room of the TARDIS because you couldn't figure out where a ticking sound was coming from - pocketwatch, by the way, genius. But _this_ is where you draw the line? Seriously?!"

He sidestepped her, almost frantic now to stop her speaking, not letting himself think about why. If he could just get back to the room he didn't think she'd follow, not with the Master there.

Her heeled boots snapped quickly against the floorboards after him. "Don't walk away from me."

He ignored her, taking the stairs at a bound. He heard her swear as she bundled up her skirts and flew after him, up onto the second floor landing together. He made for the next set of stairs, only managing the first few.

"Doctor!" She sounded imperious, strained, pleading all at once, and he made the mistake of looking back. Froze at the look on her face, aching with sympathy as she peered up at him. "...What are you so afraid of?"

He wasn't. His hearts raced in his chest and his fists clenched at his sides and he could hardly bring himself to look at her - but it wasn't quite _fear_. Not entirely. For a moment he couldn't parse it himself, reeling in confusion at his near physical reaction to her prying. The last time he'd felt anything close to it was with -

Jack.

_Oh_.

Something finally slotted into place in his conscious brain, some piece of knowledge or suspicion from which he'd been averting his attention until now. He balked, shying away from the realisation, but it was too late. Suddenly he couldn't fathom how it hadn't registered earlier, the very second he'd looked at her.

Behind him, Clara shifted her weight, skirts rustling, as she stood waiting for his response. He ducked his head in resignation, and then turned and dropped down the few stairs between them, surprising her back a step. Her eyes immediately went wide and wary at the look on his face. He could feel it in his own expression as well: the sudden hard anger rising to the surface, transmuting his fear; the instinctive revulsion he couldn't hide. It tugged his mouth up in distaste as he circled round her, arm's length out of reach, rooting her to the spot like a threat he could keep contained.

"And what exactly do you want me to ask? What mystery am I supposed to solve here? I already _know_ what you are." But the word stuck in his throat, sour, barbed, until he had to spit it. " _Paradox_."

Of course she was. He could almost see it on her, now that he was finally looking. The way she didn't quite fit properly into the universe, didn't move in the flow of Time. He realised she looked exactly the same as the first moment he'd laid eyes on her - _exactly_ the same, impossibly so - not a hair changed, not a stitch of clothing altered, not a single shed cell. It made him want to squint against the discomfort of seeing her, slide his gaze away from her obscene stillness. It was like looking at a ghost, he thought, or something like it. She was a facsimile, a secondhand echo.

_And she didn't know it._

He'd felt similar around Jack, but this was worse. Jack was a living fixed point, a paradox in the wider sense. This was something different, a more specific crime of existence.

"Paradox." She whispered it like a revelation, like he'd named her at last, like he'd given her the awful gift of self-awareness. She raised her gaze to him as he stalked past her, still restlessly circling. "What does that mean? In this... specific circumstance?"

"It means you're wrong. Impossible. You shouldn't be here. You're a nightmare in Time, Clara, you could do _so much_ damage."

"But. _Why_ am I a paradox?! Why have I got all this stuff in my head that never happened?"

"Because -" He stilled abruptly, feeling something hot and sickly and painful twist in his gut.

Because he'd changed his own timeline. Not the natural shift and meander of everyday choices, but a conscious, precise diversion of events. No, worse than that: he'd _obliterated_ the set course of his future, destroyed even the myriad of potentials by ridding himself of a regeneration he hadn't wanted to face. Maybe that wouldn't have mattered as much for someone else, but he was a Time Lord. His timeline threaded through the fabric of the universe, throughout all of Time, like structural integrity. And he'd hacked it loose without a moment's thought for consequence. Driven by fear and arrogance, by his wild desperation to save the Master, to avoid the fundamental change of himself he'd come to associate with death.

He'd changed his timeline, and whoever this girl had been to him in another life, another future, she'd been tangled right through it.

"Because you were right the first time," he finished eventually, ashamed of the admission. "I fucked something up."

* * *

The Master was already in bed when the Doctor slipped into their room, although not asleep. The other Time Lord sat propped against the headboard, shirtless, one knee raised under the covers so he could spread out the broadsheet newspaper he was flicking through by the light of the oil lamp. He was wearing the Doctor's thick-rimmed reading glasses to see the fine print, shameless in his appropriation, and peered up over the top of the frames at his entrance.

The Doctor said nothing, busying himself shrugging off coat and jacket, putting off the conversation he could feel coming for a few more seconds.

The Master returned his attention to the paper, quiet as the Doctor haltingly shed outer layers of clothing. After a while, he twitched the page to indicate the article he was absorbed in, voice emerging thoughtful and distracted. "Dead king in the Netherlands, no male heir. Reckon I could take it if you fancy a change of scenery."

Standing barefoot, the Doctor watched him wordlessly for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to crawl silently into bed beside him, curl up with his forehead pressed to the Master's hip as he sat reading, warded briefly from the disaster of his own making by the other man's lethal presence.

Finally noticing his lack of response, the Master looked up again, raising his eyebrows. "It was a joke."

The Doctor swallowed. "...I need to tell you something."


	6. Chapter 6

"She's _what_."

The Doctor winced at the barely restrained undercurrent of fury and disgust in the other man's voice, not least because it echoed his own reaction, of which he was not particularly proud. In his instinctive panic of realising what Clara really was, he hadn't quite been able to help himself. Paradoxes were anathema to Time Lords, contrary to the very nature of their existence. Encountering one had always brought out the very worst in him; a kind of visceral desperation to get away, that arrested any kind of sense or control he might have had otherwise.

That the Master had previously dabbled in _causing_ one had been testament to his fractured state of mind at the time. Now, confronted with the existence of a paradox not in his own control, he showed the same horror the Doctor had felt at the moment of revelation.

The Master was pacing restlessly, dressed only in his pyjama pants, bright hair mussed in his distress. Glasses and newspaper had been hastily discarded across the bed behind him. "But how do you _know_?"

"I just do," he said helplessly. "I saw it, I can feel it on her."

"Why didn't you say anything before?"

The Doctor hesitated, unsure of even how to give a truthful answer.

In his single-mindedness, the Master moved on without waiting for a response. "Where is she? I want to -"

"Gone, for now." Clara had taken off again after their confrontation downstairs, and he hadn't tried to make her stay, still the coward.

"Oh for fuck's sake..." The other Time Lord hardly spared time to shoot him a glare, already moving to pick up his shirt, apparently intending to tear off after her.

"Wait, where are you going? What are you going to do?"

"What do you think?! If she's a... _paradox_... she's probably part of this mess. Didn't that occur to you?"

The Doctor shrugged agreement. "Well, yeah maybe, but that wouldn't explain -"

He stopped, thinking about the event that had started all of this: leaving the TARDIS, and it promptly disappearing behind them. Leaving them _here_ , somewhere he'd specifically asked her to avoid, like she'd pitched him out in purposeful defiance of the instruction. The very first time he'd set foot off the ship since altering his timeline, in fact, the first instance of -

"Oh. _God_ \- _I'm_ the paradox!"

Caught short, the Master automatically stepped away from him as though he'd just announced being contagious, looking a little wild around the eyes. "What, why?"

"Clara as well, obviously, but - _oh_ , how am I so _stupid_? It's both of us. We must have... I don't know, been part of the same event? The same timeline. _My_ timeline. And now it's been made impossible, except... here we are." He paused, and then as realisations continued to spark behind his eyes he brought a hand up to connect with his forehead in enthusiastic self-recrimination. " _That's_ why the TARDIS left! The moment I set foot out of the Vortex, I became... impossible. Of course she couldn't be near me. It was nothing to _do_ with Torchwood!"

The other Time Lord looked like he was running the rapid conclusions through his own internal evaluation, before nodding in reluctant concession. "It makes more sense than 'primitives stole your spaceship', I suppose..."

"That's why the TARDIS brought us here. To find Clara, to have a chance at... fixing it? Maybe?" He was speculating wildly now, but it felt good to finally have a lead to speculate _about_.

The Master glared, less thrilled. "Hey, wouldn't it be incredibly useful if someone had already given your wreck of a ship the ability to be in proximity to Time paradoxes instead of just fucking off? ...Oh _wait_!"

He frowned back. "Did it occur to you that she's hypersensitive to paradoxes now _precisely_ because of what you did to her?"

"It occurs to me you've indulged that flying box of junk to the point of insolence -"

"This isn't helping."

They stared at each other in wordless frustration, no stunning flashes of inspiration coming to either of them. The Doctor shifted, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "Alright. So. We just find a way to resolve the paradox. Right?"

Incredulous, the Master threw up a hand. "Oh of course! Why didn't I think of that! Honestly, this is why I keep you around. That simple-minded insight - _indispensable_."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed outwards over his eyes to ease the headache he could feel building. "Fine -"

"No, please! Keep going, I can't wait to hear the plan! 'Resolve the paradox', I'm with you so far, but just enlighten me as to how exactly you do that with - oh let's see - no TARDIS, no way to take back a regeneration, and no clue as to what the nature of the paradox actually _is_ , I might add, beyond involving your future floozy girlfriend in some way."

"She's not -"

" _Really_?!"

The Doctor held up his hands in quick surrender, eager to end the tirade. "You're right, okay? I don't know what to do to fix this. If the TARDIS really can't come near us, then we're... properly stranded."

The Master scoffed, raising his eyebrows pointedly. "I think you'll find _you're_ stranded. It's not my paradox."

Stunned, the Doctor stared at him in silence for several seconds, taken aback by the offhand severing of ties. "I... Wh... Yes it is! You took my regeneration, you... you're part of it."

"That was _your_ decision, _not_ mine." The other man practically spat it, suddenly furious and visibly agitated. " _You're_ the one who keeps twisting up timelines to suit yourself. What did you think was going to happen?!"

"You can't be serious!" He sputtered, indignant, unable to believe the ingratitude. "This is happening because I _saved your life_!"

"I _specifically_ remember saying I didn't want your help."

"But you sure took it anyway, didn't you!" He could feel heat prickling up the back of his neck, anger and rapidly mounting panic at the thought of the Master so easily cutting him loose, after everything. "You can't just... _walk away_ and pretend it's not your problem!"

"One way to find out for sure, isn't there? If you're the bloody _epicentre_ of this mess..." The Master turned away, running one hand up through his hair in a gesture meant to calm himself. He moved over towards the slanted window, glaring out - and the Doctor was abruptly reminded of just how much the other Time Lord hated Earth, hated being trapped, had hated the _Doctor_ with vicious conviction until relatively recently. It didn't seem like it would take much, right now, to remind him of why.

Suddenly, the Doctor could see the extreme precariousness of their truce; could see how it would all come apart at the seams so very easily. He'd taken for granted that they were allied. Naively, it hadn't occurred to him to wonder what would happen the moment their interests diverged.

He took a breath, biting back the defensive anger that wanted to rise, a muscle clenching in his jaw. Gaze fixed intently on the floorboards, he couldn't help remembering kneeling there and saying please once before.

"...Don't go."

The Master looked back at him sharply. He said nothing, his expression unreadable. His fingers were restlessly tapping out the beat of four against his leg, a sure sign of agitation.

Under the scrutiny, the Doctor shifted his weight from one foot to the other, folded his arms self-consciously around himself. "I mean it, I'm asking. I need... I need your help. Don't go. Please." It was more difficult than he'd imagined, saying the words. Like purposely leaving himself open to a stab.

The Master turned more fully to regard him, all cold calculation. He remained silent for a while, and the Doctor held his breath while he waited, wondering what inner debate was transpiring, and what it would be that tipped the balance one way or another.

At last, the other Time Lord gave a short exhale, glancing away with a slight sneer. "Tell me what you know about the girl, everything she said."

The Doctor breathed again. It wasn't quite agreement, but it was more that he'd expected.

* * *

Something was different, after that, and it took the Doctor longer than he was happy to admit to figure out what it was.

He felt... insecure.

For perhaps the first time in their long shared history, he found himself earnestly waiting for the Master to leave. Found himself braced for it. And not in the usual manner of dramatically escaping some confrontation or trap, both of them knowing full well he'd be back sooner or later, always so committed to chasing the Doctor through Time and the universe.

This was different.

For the first time, the Doctor was trapped and the Master could leave. Worse: he'd actually considered doing it, however momentarily. The Doctor had inadvertently made himself a liability, made himself distasteful to the other man at a base, instinctive level. He was a paradox, and for Time Lords there was nothing more profane. Even the TARDIS herself had been unable to remain in proximity to him.

Never in his lives had he been more aware of how long he'd simply taken for granted that the Master would follow him, before now. Suddenly he found himself doubting it; wondering how long, exactly, before the other man grew bored and impatient and took himself off far enough to escape the disruptive reach of the paradox, where he at least had a chance of calling the TARDIS and being on his way. The Doctor was convinced it was only a matter of limited time. Selflessness hardly came naturally to the other Time Lord.

He supposed he couldn't even begrudge it. Chastised, the Doctor wondered if this was how the Master had grown accustomed to existing over the centuries: always a moment away from being left alone again, as the Doctor ran on through the stars.

* * *

He tended to wake up later than the Master, who slept even less than he did as though loathe to give in to the weakness. So it wasn't particularly unusual for him to wake to an otherwise empty room, the other man having already disappeared off somewhere to entertain himself tormenting their human hosts. Or it hadn't felt out of the ordinary, previously. Now, he found himself wondering with a flash of paranoia if the Master had changed his mind about staying, and taken the chance while he slept to slip away.

The Doctor got up, quickly pulling on clothes until he was semi-presentable, and went to try and find him.

This early in the morning, there was usually only the two of them around to make nuisances of themselves, the _Rose & Crown _not yet open to other patrons. What definitely _was_ out of the ordinary, he realised halfway down the stairs, was the faint, discordant sound of - children laughing? Bemused, he followed it down, emerging into the barroom to an unprecedented sight.

Elsie was standing in the centre of the room with the Master, both of them conducting a performatively loud conversation. Scattered around them, circling like a pack of small wolves, were three of the scruffiest kids he'd laid eyes on, the kind who typically haunted the streets and gutters of far poorer parts of London than this place. One of them was Aoife, he realised, the trail of her red hair giving her away even beneath the tatty, oversized wool hat she wore. The other two he didn't recognise, both of them boys around her age.

The Doctor stopped at the foot of the stairs, watching in confusion as one of the boys edged up behind Elsie and reached towards her, aiming for the red handkerchief sticking slightly out of her apron pocket. She must have felt him lean too close, though, as she immediately smacked a hand down over the pocket and spun round, stamping her foot as though to chase him away. The boy shrieked with what was obviously glee, scrambling back from her and offering up a wide, gap-toothed grin as his only apology.

"Felt that, you little sod! Not good enough!"

"You knew I was comin' though!" he retorted. "Not fair!"

The Master wore a faint smirk as he observed the exchange, unsympathetic to either plight. "Well there you go then, that's why you've got to get better at causing a distraction, isn't it? Shouldn't be too hard with three of you, surely."

"Like this?"

Aoife stood at his hip, having sidled closer during the commotion. She was blithely holding up the Master's pocketwatch for examination. The Time Lord's hand flew to his own pocket in apparent surprise. "Oi!"

More screaming giggles erupted from all three children as they scattered away from him to keep the prize. Elsie yelped and staggered as one of the boys ran to hide behind her, his grubby hands clutching at her skirts as she laughed. A chair toppled over with a crash as Aoife darted beneath the nearest table for a decent hiding spot.

The Doctor stared in silent, astonished fascination, feeling a confused smile tip his mouth. It was so left field of what he'd been braced for that he didn't quite know how to react.

Bob was standing behind the bar, also watching the proceedings, though with far more agitation. He caught sight of the Doctor and wasted no time in stomping over to him, already waving a hand back towards the unfolding production.

"Sir, you got to make him stop!"

"I don't even know what he's doing," the Doctor admitted easily, eyebrows raised. "What is this?"

"Bugger if I know." The human folded his arms in disgust, turning to survey the scene. "He's... He's... He's teaching them to steal _better_ , is what he's doing! Who in their bloody right mind...?"

The Doctor scoffed disbelieving laughter, dragging a hand down his face as if he could hide the smile stretched there. "What are they... What are they doing here?"

"I don't sodding know. _That_ one -" He jabbed an accusatory finger at Aoife. "- trailed them all in here like alley cats, looking for _your_ one like she knew him. Been playing silly buggers ever since."

He couldn't stop grinning, utterly charmed, as he watched the Master edge round the circumference of the table, making a grab for Aoife. She was quick enough to throw the watch to one of the boys - and again, everyone was distracted enough that they missed the third terror quietly teasing the red handkerchief from Elsie's apron, right up until he started waving it in the air in ecstatic victory.

"He likes kids," the Doctor murmured, shrugging helplessly, like he was confiding a particularly well guarded secret. Tiny, amoral agents of chaos; of course the Master liked children. They were practically his native people. The Doctor didn't know how he'd ever forgotten that fact. "...And thieves. Got a soft spot for thieves."

Bob let out a despairing sound at his obvious failure to display sufficient horror. "As if you two wasn't bad enough on your own, he's gonna have me robbed out of house and home, he is."

The Doctor clapped him on the shoulder with as much sympathy as he could muster, completely unable to hide his own enjoyment.

At that moment, the Master glanced up and caught him staring. Their eyes met above the bobbing heads of swarming children, and for a second the other Time Lord faltered, his expression flickering self-consciously, as though embarrassed to be seen participating in anything so wholly joyful.

The Doctor's chest hurt with sharp, desperate affection, so suddenly that it took him by surprise.

Something of it must have been visible in his expression, as Bob took one look at him and promptly threw his hands up in exasperated defeat, trudging back to his spot at the bar. The Master ducked his head, breaking eye contact, obviously hesitating to rejoin his game with an audience. Then Aoife tugged at his sleeve, making a bad attempt at his cufflinks, and as though compelled he whirled back towards them with an exaggerated roar of, " _Savages_!"

Delighted, the Doctor carefully sat himself down on the bottom stair, as unobtrusive as he knew how to be. When the game ended, he was sure there would be a return to practical concerns; the tension of unresolved arguments and things that shouldn't be said. But for right now he wanted to just witness, for a while. He huffed soft laughter, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched the Master steal the ribbon from Aoife's hair like it was of equal value to his watch, holding it victoriously out of her reach.

This would be among the moments he preserved to memory, the Doctor decided, for when it all came apart.

* * *

It was a strange kind of limbo he found himself in, after that. A state of... not knowing. Not being certain, of really anything at all.

Despite his initial assurance that they only had to resolve the paradox, the Master was right in that he didn't know how to do that. Neither of them did, not without more information. So they were left at something of a loss about what to do with their sudden abundance of time. Trying to find Torchwood had suddenly become pointless, if they were really nothing to do with his missing TARDIS. Searching for the TARDIS at all was pointless, in fact, because _he_ was the problem. He'd lost any kind of target on which to fix his attention, any idea he'd had about how to help himself or resolve their situation. And, underscoring all that, he found himself completely unable to judge the Master's reaction to any of it.

He'd expected... reservation from the other man, as perhaps a best case scenario. More accurately, he'd expected further display of the Master's resentment, his poisonous commentary about how it was the Doctor's own fault. He'd even resigned himself to the Master going back to refusing to touch him, put off by the revelation of what he was now, the perversity of it. He certainly wouldn't have been surprised. He was suddenly convinced he could feel it on himself; his own state of _wrongness_ , of paradoxical contamination. It made something in his throat rise in disgust when he thought about it for too long, made him want to scratch the sensation from his skin. He couldn't imagine how he hadn't noticed it before now, and wouldn't have blamed the other Time Lord for being equally repulsed.

Regardless, it wasn't the case.

If anything, the Master seemed to want him more intently than before - and in an uncharitable moment the Doctor wondered if the new taboo was part of the appeal. And ultimately whether it mattered if it was.

* * *

Day had stretched hazily into evening, unnoticed, and he was lethargic with pleasure, strung-out, useless under the weight of it.

Two of the Master's fingers slid easily in and out of him, relentlessly slow, circling cruelly around the little bundle of nerves inside him; never enough to give relief but more than sufficient to keep him on torturous edge. His hips twitched up sluggishly from the bed every time, legs spread open defencelessly and one arm thrown over his eyes. He couldn't bear to look and see the Master's clinical observation of him anymore; his distant, curious cataloguing of reactions. The only noises in the otherwise silent room were the mortifying liquid-slick sounds of the Master's fingers moving in him, the Doctor's own unsteady breathing, his ruined voice. The Master was quiet, beyond a few softly spoken instructions when needed.

The Doctor had lost track of how long this had already gone on for. He'd become a toy as the Master set about determining how he worked, found all the buttons that could be pressed and which parts of him would break under pressure. Unusually generous, the Master had kissed and petted and stroked, swallowed him down, licked him open, manipulated his body until the Doctor had long lost the sense of words.

He wasn't allowed to come, though. That was the rule. The Doctor no longer remembered the point of the game, only that he somehow had to survive it.

A third finger pressed inside him, not for the first time tonight, curling up against his prostate until he bucked and grabbed for the sheets. A pool of precome had gathered in the hollow of his stomach, leaking steadily from him. The Master leaned down and dipped his tongue into the fluid, lapped it away while he fingered him further open. His cheek brushed against the head of his cock, nuzzling at him until the Doctor whined a protest.

"I need... Please just let me -"

"No."

He was barely coherent when the probing fingers withdrew and the Master's hands on his hips urged him over onto his stomach, then up onto his knees. He did his best to follow the wordless instructions, clumsy now in his movements. The Master had already fucked him once tonight, and as he pressed himself back inside the intrusion was eased by the slick mess of come and lubricant he'd left earlier. The Doctor shook, hands fisting in the sheets.

The Master thrust into him a few times, buried himself as far as he could manage and ground his hips against his arse, making himself comfortable. He guided the Doctor further down onto the bed, insistently tilting his pelvis so that the head of his cock angled against his prostate. The Doctor whined, and the Master let out a spiteful huff of triumph. He started to move in earnest, snapping his hips forward, holding onto the Doctor's hip and thigh to keep him in place. The Doctor's voice broke in reaction, the sensation too much after everything. He wanted to crawl away but didn't have the energy to free himself. He wanted desperately to come, couldn't stand this much longer without. Overstimulated nerves fired through him, short-circuiting his ability to think as the Master fucked him.

The Master liked to hear him beg, he knew. Liked it best when he could hear the humiliation clear in his voice, pick through the fragments of his pride at leisure, the sharp cruelty in him never quite sated without the sacrifice. Sometimes, if the Doctor did it well enough, he even took pity enough to allow him what he wanted.

"Master, please, please. Can I - I need - please let me finish -"

"No."

"After you, only after, I have to, _please_ -"

"Not after, no." The Master slowed. His hips pressed flush to him, one hand flat against the groove of his spine. He paused long enough to ensure the Doctor was listening, waiting until he aimed a hazy glance back over his shoulder, insisting on eye contact. "I don't want you to come. Understand? Not at all. That's not for you. You're going to stop yourself."

The Doctor's breath caught on a surge of uncertain emotion. "I can't," he whispered, horrified, already defeated. He was going to fail. He didn't have the reserves of willpower left for that.

The Master began to move again, sliding out of him and back inside with slow deliberation. His hand stroked back along the Doctor's spine, thumb dipping down to the base of him, across the stretched rim of muscle around the Master's cock until the Doctor gasped. With every thrust, the Master made sure his cock dragged across his prostate, purposeful and cruel.

The Doctor dropped fully forward onto the mattress, strength going out of him, his face pressed into the crook of his elbow and his hand clutching at his hair in frustration. He didn't understand himself, didn't understand how the thought of the Master using him selfishly, carelessly, sent him careening wildly towards his own orgasm even faster. He dropped his mental guard, practically inviting the Master to sink psychic claws into him and take away any choice he had in the matter. He wanted to be forced, wanted it made impossible, as the strength of his own willpower rapidly reached its limits. He was going to break the one rule, going to come apart in a shattering loss of control.

The Master slammed into him and pointedly ignored the offer, refusing to help. He was starting to lose his own composure, breath coming rough and audible as his movements got faster and less controlled. One hand moved up the length of the Doctor's spine until he grasped the back of his neck and shoulder, fingers clutching hard enough to bruise, easier to shove him down and pull him back into each thrust. The Doctor moaned at the effort of controlling himself, jostled helplessly against the sheets every time the other man fucked into him. His cock hung heavy and aching between his legs, drooling a steady stream of precome onto the bed.

"Fuck -!"

The Master made a rough sound in his throat, stilled, and shuddered as he came. The Doctor felt him spill inside him in pulses, liquid heat. He knew immediately that it was too much: the intimacy of it, the sheer physical proximity of orgasm. He couldn't stop himself, could feel his own climax rising in involuntary response.

The Master grabbed at his waist, dragged him back against him. "Don't you _dare_."

"I can't - I can't, _please_ , I need -!" He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking, barely holding himself on the precipice. Everything in his body demanded the release, braced for it, screamed for it. He dropped his head forward with a wrecked sound, hips jerking helplessly so that the Master's cock slid through the spent slickness inside him.

"You can." The Master pressed over him, heavy, stretching up to hiss insistently beside his ear. "You _can_ , you can give me this."

The Doctor hid his face against the pillows, fingers clawing at the material as he fought to keep himself away from that tipping point. Even starting to soften, the Master's cock had nudged against his prostate when he'd moved, and he was _so_ close. It wouldn't take anything else beyond giving himself permission and he thought he could come.

"... _Why_?" he managed to rasp, desperate, upset. They'd done this before when it hadn't been about the Doctor's pleasure, only the Master's. He understood that, at least; understood his role, and how it came with its own satisfaction. This was different. The Master had purposely inflicted pleasure on him for hours, it felt like; driven him over and over again to the point of relief and _held_ him there, instead. And now, to say there would be no finish to it at all, no reward for his impossible self-control... It wasn't fair. He wondered nonsensically if this was retaliation, punishment, for asking him to stay.

The Master reached up, stroking firm across the back of his neck, the top of his spine. "Because I asked for it," he explained eventually, voice soft. "Because I want you to do this for me."

Something like a sob escaped him, muffled in the press of cotton against his face. He was shivering, hot and cold by turns as the sweat cooled on his skin and his blood surged in his veins. The need to come was vicious, painful.

Slowly, the Master lifted himself up and eased his weight off him. His cock slipped free, and the Doctor immediately felt the filthy spill of semen down the inside of his thigh. He bit his lip and fought not to react to even that, wildly oversensitised. The mattress shifted as the Master moved to lie down beside him, and still the Doctor remained exactly as he'd been positioned, afraid that if he moved at all he'd lose the will to stop himself, lose both his control and his dignity in a single frantic thrust against the bedsheets.

"Come here."

He didn't react at first, until the other man touched his shoulder. The Doctor raised his head, looking over blurrily. The Master was lying on his back next to him, propped up slightly against the pillows. He gestured, holding out an arm. "Come here. You can lie on me, if you want."

Dazed, the Doctor nodded. It took a second of concentration for him to lift himself on shaky arms, and then he crawled awkwardly across the short distance, eager for contact even knowing it would make everything more difficult. The Master made room for him to settle between his legs, let him collapse across his torso. The Doctor dragged a slightly pained breath as his cock pressed into the mattress, gritting his teeth and concentrating on keeping himself still. The Master's arms closed round him, one hand burying in his sweat-damp hair and the other firm on his back. The Doctor shuddered and slid his arms under the other man's waist, clinging to him, his cheek resting against his upper heartbeat. He felt brittle and twitchy, half-high with too many endorphins, needing the anchor of him. He wanted to work his hips, get himself off against the cotton sheets, and it was only the Master's restraining grip on him that kept him from doing it.

The Master's hands moved to his face, urging him to look up. His fingers curled under the Doctor's jaw, holding him in place for examination. Breathless and unsteady under the scrutiny, the Doctor closed his eyes, ashamed to feel frustrated tears track suddenly down his face.

The Master blinked in surprise. He moved his thumbs carefully across the Doctor's cheeks, smearing the wetness. "...Oh. That's perfect. You're lovely when you cry."

The Doctor heaved a sharp breath in response, not looking. He couldn't bring himself to say anything, sure that if he opened his mouth he'd break and spill frenzied pleas all over himself, begging permission without thought or shame. Or worse: ask whether this was enough, somehow. Ask whether the Master would stay longer, if he let him keep doing what he wanted.

The Master combed fingers through his hair, pulled smoothly at the strands in repeated motions until the Doctor finally felt some of the knife-edge emotion ease from him. He let himself go heavy, breathing purposely deeper, pressing his face against the other man's chest and luxuriating mindlessly in the petting. He could feel his own heartsbeat pulsing in his throat, his wrists, his cock as he shifted, still wanting to come. It was clear the Master was pleased with his state of frustration, but that didn't make the high of unused hormones and chemicals any easier to come down from. He was shivering, trembling, vaguely mortified by his own reaction.

He wondered, when he was able, what secret test this had been. To what obscure deeper meaning the Master had equated his willingness to give up an orgasm - and whether it would be enough, for now, to hold his interest.

* * *

He started looking for Clara in earnest, of course, but now that he wanted her she was nowhere to be seen, and for the first time it occurred to him to wonder where she disappeared to when not ambushing him at the bar. Now that a mental layer of denial had been removed from his perception of events, and he'd actually had the chance to step back and consider the situation, dozens of questions were sparking in his brain, some trivial, some haunting. How had she recognised him, if this wasn't the regeneration she'd known previously? Who was she to him? How could she remember a future that could now never come to pass? What event bound them so intrinsically that disrupting it had cast them both adrift in Time?

He needed her to provide answers if he was to have any hope of fixing the situation. And even then, answers alone likely wouldn't be enough.

Since she only ever seemed to find him when he was alone, actively avoiding the Master, he slipped away on his own one afternoon, no particular destination in mind except to wander the streets in the area in hopes he'd spot her. Or more likely, she'd spot him. It felt strange, he realised, to be on his own. At some point he'd grown unaccustomed to his own company. He walked along the street, peering curiously into shop windows, scanning the faces of the humans he passed. Where would Clara go in daytime hours? He wished he'd asked.

A scuff of sound from the entrance of an alleyway caught his attention, possibly before it was supposed to. He glanced over, saw the Torchwood soldier move towards him - and broke into a run on pure instinct, darting forward.

A shop door opened up ahead of him, bell jingling, and a second soldier stepped into his path, gun in hand. The Doctor veered wildly to the left, out into the road, dodging round the trotting hooves of a cart horse. He'd forgotten, somehow. Discounted the threat, dismissed the thought of Torchwood from his mind to be replaced by this new problem. How could he possibly have forgotten?

It was an ambush. More of them, black-clad and armed, were stepping out into the street ahead of him, taking aim. He slid to a halt, tried to turn again, but they were everywhere, cutting off any escape route he might have had. He grabbed the sonic from his pocket, sweeping a look around for something, _anything_ , that could be used as a distraction.

The closest of the soldiers crashed into him, dragging him off balance as he grabbed for the sonic. They stumbled together further into the road, struggling, the Doctor twisting as he tried to keep the screwdriver out of reach. People were stopping to watch the scrap, staring in astonishment at the convergence of soldiers.

"On order of Her - ungh, fucking - _Majesty_ , you're -"

More of them were coming, and he couldn't extract himself quick enough. Desperate, he activated the sonic, sending a debilitating screech of sound out through the atmosphere. The humans around him all flinched and ducked and screamed, clapping hands over their ears if they could.

But the soldier grappling with him didn't let go, didn't stop, even as he swore in pain. He got a handful of the Doctor's sleeve, started to pull his arm down.

He realised suddenly that they were absolutely going to arrest him, that he couldn't get away. Another soldier grabbed him, pulled him backwards until he staggered. Both were trying to get the sonic off him, and the last thing of any use he could think to do was keep it away from them.

In the scuffle, he threw a look up at the stunned, watching crowd of humans - and a flash of familiar red hair blurred past his vision. He didn't have time to consider - just hurled the sonic up and into the crowd, in what he fervently hoped was the right direction, silently willing thieving little hands to be quick enough to get to it before the Torchwood soldiers did.

He didn't get to see if it worked. The butt of a rifle connected with the back of his head, and the ground rushed up to meet him.


	7. Chapter 7

He came awake with his face mashed against cold stone floor, limbs sprawled at angles. It took him a few seconds to pull himself together, and he squinted as he levered himself up. Moving shot pain straight through him, and he brought a hand to the back of his head, gingerly prodding the lump there. He pushed himself up on knees and elbows, groaning, and awkwardly rose until he was kneeling.

He froze at the sight of two armed Torchwood soldiers and another man dressed like a scientist, all standing there facing him. The scientist was scribbling notes on a clipboard.

"Uhm. Hello?"

None of them responded.

Wary, he got unsteadily to his feet, looking round himself. The room he was in was dim, old stone walls and a couple of bare light fittings overhead. It was a basement room, no windows, and the Doctor was in a cage in the middle of it.

It was one of the prison cells beneath what had recently been Scotland Yard, he realised quickly, now converted to Torchwood purposes. Iron bars set from floor to ceiling provided one barrier, and inside that, preventing him from touching the bars or reaching through, was a thick layer of what looked like glass surrounding him on all sides. There were holes drilled up near the ceiling to allow air in, and a sealed door lined up with the door of the outer cell, but beyond that it was featureless. The Doctor put his palm against the clear surface, peering upwards.

"Reinforced," the man in the lab coat commented distractedly, still not looking up from his notes. His voice was distorted through the glass. "Used in aquariums, mostly."

The Doctor tapped it with his knuckle, feeling the dulled vibrations of a solid object come back to him. "So I see." He let his hand slide away, down to his side, patting his coat pockets curiously.

"We confiscated your equipment," the scientist pre-empted his next question, finally glancing up. "I look forward to you explaining the technology to me."

He raised his eyebrows, wandering closer to stand in front of the little group. "Oh is that what I'm going to be doing?"

Seemingly impervious to his sarcasm, the human folded his arms over his clipboard, regarding him intently. "I was told you disposed of something as we brought you in. What was it?"

The Doctor released an incredulous breath, taken aback by the cold audacity. At least it was confirmation that Torchwood hadn't gotten hold of his sonic to pick apart.

When he stayed silent, the scientist frowned mildly. "I feel I should tell you, Doctor - that is the title you go by, yes? - you'll find this a much easier experience if you cooperate with me."

He widened his stance, shoving his hands into his pockets and making a show of looking intrigued. "That right? What am I cooperating with, exactly?"

"Torchwood is an organisation dedicated to the defence of Her Majesty's -"

"I'm familiar with the tagline, get to it."

"Then you know it falls to us to detain and investigate threats to this nation, this _world_ perhaps, from your... type."

The Doctor shook his head, showed his teeth in what he was sure was not a nice expression. "You've got no idea. I'm not a threat to Earth."

"Since you arrived you've assaulted our forces three times now, I believe. Twice endangering all civilians in the vicinity, and once causing unknown and lasting injury to a lieutenant unfortunate enough to cross your path by happenstance."

"That wasn't -" He bit his tongue, not knowing how to finish the protest in any way that mattered, since it was true. "They were trying to arrest me. I hadn't done anything wrong."

"Your very presence here is in violation of your exile, Doctor, of which you were made well aware. We have every right to arrest you. And every right to determine what use you can be to us while you remain here."

He tensed at the implicit threat, trying to conceal it. "Held without a trial? Doesn't your country have laws against that kind of thing?"

"Oh, rigorous ones." The man smiled thinly. "They apply to humans."

With that, he tucked the clipboard under one arm and turned away, heading for the door out of the room.

"Hey!" The Doctor banged on the glass, trying to call back his attention. "Wait, I have -!"

The scientist didn't even look back. He stepped out of the room, careful to close and lock the door behind himself. The two soldiers took up guard positions inside, expressionless, pointedly not looking at him. He kept knocking on the glass for a while, but they didn't so much as blink.

Okay. It was fine. This was fine. _Completely_ fine. He'd been in worse predicaments. He'd once escaped a Silurian confinement zone armed with little more than an aerosol spray can and a bobby pin. This was nothing.

Left for all intents and purposes to his own devices, the Doctor turned on the spot, staring round the perimeters of his cell. It was a few paces across each side. He started to move round the edges, tapping, searching for a weak spot. The corners were lined with metal and some kind of sealant. He tried to pick at it with his nails, test the seal, but it was too perfect to get under. The guards made no attempt to stop him, apparently unconcerned by his efforts. Giving up on the corners, he dropped down to his knees, squinting at where the glass met the stone floor. The same metal frame bolted it down, no space for even a draft to creep through. He followed it round, trying to be vaguely surreptitious about inching closer to the door.

"Did you know?"

He stopped dead, nearly knocking his head against the glass as he jerked upright in shock, astounded to see Clara on the other side of the bars. His face screwed up in confusion, kneeling there gaping at her for a moment. "Wait, what -? How are you -? What?!"

She looked furious, eyes hard and burning through the glass with some overpowering emotion. "Did you _know_ , Doctor?"

"Know what?!" He cast an incredulous look around, not understanding how she'd gotten in, why no one was running to restrain her. "What are you _doing_ here?"

She raised a jerky hand, gesturing helplessly around herself. "I'm not even real, am I?! They can't... I kept trying, but no one besides _you_ can hear me, see me, they don't know I'm here. _Am_ I here?!" She gave a hurt little laugh, eyes glittering. "If a girl screams in the middle of a city and no one there hears, is she...?"

He got to his feet, frowning intently as he processed the information. "I didn't... What, really?" He shot a look across at the two guards, who had indeed progressed from curious frowns to outright staring at him now. They could only hear one side of the conversation, he realised; he looked like a crazy person.

"Did you know and not tell me?" she demanded again. "Just let me wander round like some kind of... ghost?!"

He tried to turn his back on the soldiers as best he could, leaning his shoulder on the glass so he faced away and dropping his voice. "I swear I didn't." Of course, even a few minutes of _paying attention_ and actually _looking_ at her properly instead of giving in to the instinct to flee like a damn coward every time he saw her might have let him figure it out before now, but that was neither here nor there at this point.

Clara shook her head. "But... _why_? What's happened to me? Why can only you see me, why can -" She stopped, a look of sudden hope overtaking her face. "No, but your friend, he could - he spoke to me, he could see -"

The Doctor was already shaking his head, cutting short the optimism. "We're both Time Lords," he pointed out quietly, with a helpless shrug. "We're just... more aware of things like you."

She breathed out, eyes wet and furious. "Things like me."

"No, I'm sorry, I only meant -"

"What am I, then? Go on. Don't you dare just say 'paradox'!"

He stalled, struggling to think how to explain, then realising there weren't really many ways to soften the blow. He shifted, bracing his forearm above his head and ducking slightly so he could meet her gaze. "You're a... fragment, I think. An echo in Time, an afterimage of what should have been here. It's the universe trying to resolve itself. A version of you was supposed to be here, like a fixed point, but then -"

"But then you changed something."

"I didn't know. _Couldn't_ have known. This, it's not a normal consequence, I don't even fully understand how it's happened. We must have been - connected, somehow. Part of the same event."

She screwed her eyes shut, hands rising to press against her temples like it hurt. "There are flashes, but it's all a mess, no order. I was trying to save you. You were... being destroyed, your whole history, everything you'd ever done."

He blinked. "My timeline."

"Yeah... and I had to stop it, I had to go back through it and make sure -" She shook her head, upset, backing away from him a step.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Clara." He was pleading with her through the glass, suddenly desperate for her not to leave as he felt the beginnings of comprehension. If she'd really come back through his timeline from a point that couldn't exist anymore, that would absolutely be enough to throw them both into paradox. "I know I should have tried to help the first time you spoke to me, I know that, but please -"

"I was trying to save you," she said again. "And this is what I get?"

"I didn't mean for -"

"No." She swiped angrily at the unshed tears, eyes flashing as she glared up at him. "No, you never do."

He flinched, pressing his palms and forehead against the glass in defeat, not knowing what he could actually say. There was nothing _to_ say. She was right.

He never _meant_ to trail obliterated lives in his wake. It just seemed to be the price of his friendship.

* * *

He wasn't left alone for long, of course. He had something Torchwood wanted: knowledge. And the Master had been right in his assessment of their goals and methods, unfortunately. Though not surprisingly.

So when the soldiers pulled him from the cell, restrained and protesting, Clara calling frantically after him unheard - well. He already knew how it was going to play out.

* * *

_"What does this do?" The scientist held up his psychic paper in front of his face, turning it one way and then the other. "What is it?"_

_The Doctor's mouth quirked sly amusement. "What do you want it to be?"_

_The human frowned at him uncomprehendingly, then with increasing confusion as he looked back down at the paper. Whatever he was seeing now made his eyebrows shoot up. "But. It can't be..."_

_The Doctor looked away as though in disinterest. "Shame."_

_The confirmation was enough to break the momentary psychic illusion, and the scientist blinked, the paper blank again. His expression hardened, and he flashed a glare up at the Doctor. Wordless, he made a beckoning gesture, and the Time Lord heard the soldiers behind him step forward -_

* * *

"What was he like, anyway?"

"Who?"

The Doctor wrinkled his nose, tipping his head back against the glass. "The... next me. The one you knew." He was lounging on the floor of his cell, one knee drawn up in front of himself.

Sitting on the other side of the glass with her back to him, as though they were propped against each other, Clara turned to shoot an arch look over her shoulder and snapped, "Oh I thought there _was_ no 'next you'? Just now-you?"

He shook his head slightly, glad she couldn't see the self-deprecating smile that drifted briefly over his face. "Go on, indulge my hypothetical curiosity."

"Your vanity."

"Hardly. Never did get on with myself."

She snorted reluctant amusement. "I don't know. He was like you. Mostly."

"Only mostly?"

"Bit more of a Peter Pan thing going on. Looked about twelve. Ego like you wouldn't believe. Well. No, I suppose _you_ would."

"I stay clever though, right?"

"See? Vanity."

He grinned. "How did you meet him - me?"

"Honestly? He - _you_ \- fell out of the sky one day and picked me up in your weird _snogbox_. ...I was only trying to get the internet fixed!"

Helpless, he let his head fall back against the glass and laughed outright, twisting so he could look back and see her chuckling with him. He didn't think her anger with him had faded entirely, but it had subsided by necessity as they both lingered here, waiting for his next interrogation.

"That was one of the ways, anyway," she added after a moment. "The one I remember most clearly."

"How do you mean?"

"Got dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. All the ways we met, or just missed each other. All your different faces. I pointed out your TARDIS to you when you stole it - remember?"

No, he didn't. Because for him it hadn't happened. Sobering, he cast his gaze around the enclosed space of his cell, searching for something to say. It occurred to him again that the thing he was talking to wasn't quite real, not in the strictest of senses. This wasn't Clara - not the human girl who presumably still existed somewhere, her life now playing out uninterrupted by an encounter with his next self's snogbox. This was... the afterimage of Clara. Little more than a fragmented collection of pieces of his lives onto which she'd been traced, given sentience and false memory.

Thinking about it, he waited for the same instinctive aversion to overtake him as it had done before. Instead, he mostly just felt sad.

"If." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I know you changed things, the way everything was supposed to go, but if you were to... find me, again, after you get out of here. The way you did the first time. Would that... fix things? Fix me?"

He closed his eyes. "No."

"Oh."

"I could go meet the original Clara, yes, but the events that created you, specifically, can't happen anymore. So it wouldn't help you. You're not... You're scattered through my timeline, you're a collection of my memories, not -"

"Okay."

"...Sorry."

"Yeah. You said that already."

* * *

_"Where is your ship?"_

_He couldn't help chuckling at the irony. "Funny, I'd been wanting to ask you that very thing until recently."_

_"We know you landed in Regent Street some weeks ago, you were seen. The accounts of the... blue box in which you travel are detailed, and distinctive."_

_The Doctor sighed, flexing his hands to try and encourage circulation back into the tips of his fingers. He'd quipped once too often at the guards fixing his restraints today, and they'd pulled them spitefully tight in retaliation. He couldn't feel his feet at all._

_"Where is it now?"_

_"Couldn't tell you if I wanted to," he said brightly. "But if you find her first, point her my way, yeah?"_

_The scientist let out a long-suffering breath, clasping his hands in front of himself. "You really need to start cooperating, Doctor. I assure you, you're not going to like what happens if you continue on this way."_

_He smiled thinly, tasting blood as his split lip opened again. "Not much liking any of this so far, but go on, surprise me."_

_They obliged._

* * *

"So what was it you changed?"

He opened his eyes, blinking at the grey stone ceiling. He was lying on the floor in the middle of the cell, arms folded up under his head, legs crossed at the ankles. "Hm?" He'd been dozing, coat spread out under himself.

Clara was circling round the edges of the room, restless and bored. Her heeled boots clicked on the stone floor with each step.

"That started the whole paradox business. What did you change?"

"Oh. Gave up a regeneration."

She stopped walking, turning to regard him narrowly. "What, really?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I didn't want it and someone else needed it. Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"What do you mean, 'you didn't _want_ it'? Isn't that how you keep yourself alive?"

He made a non-committal sound, tilting his head a bit. "Sort of. In the purely practical sense of the word."

"I'm not sure what other sense of the word matters?!"

He sighed, turning his head toward where she stood by the glass with her arms folded. "Okay, so I regenerate, and yes there's a Time Lord standing where I was standing, with all my memories, calling himself the Doctor - but he's not _me_."

"So, what - you'd just let yourself die instead?"

"Doesn't look too different, from this side of the regeneration..." he muttered absently. "But, for the record, I've got no more intention of letting myself die than I did of letting myself regenerate, so just stop giving me that look, thanks."

"But..." She couldn't seem to get her head around the idea, scowling in obvious disagreement. "Well who did you go and just... _give_ it to?"

He looked away. "My friend."

"The one you were with."

"Yup."

"Why?"

"I told you, he needed it. He was dying, I could save him. In the moment, it was really a very simple equation."

"And you stick by that choice, do you?" She narrowed her eyes at him with sharp cynicism. "His life for yours, no regrets."

"Not much I can do about it now, is there?"

"Alright, hypothetically. If you'd known all the damage it would do, known you'd end up alone here, known about _me_ \- would you change your mind?"

He thought about it. Ignorance had indeed been bliss in this case, as making the choice to gift his regeneration with no facts beyond that hadn't even been a question. The second he'd realised it was within his power to stop the other Time Lord dying, the decision had been made. It had barely seemed like a sacrifice. He tried to imagine knowing what he did now, there on the floor of the TARDIS corridor with the Master dying in his arms yet again. Could he have done it differently, even forewarned?

"No. Don't think so."

She stayed silent, her recrimination not needing to be spoken.

He frowned guiltily. "...Still sorry."

"Sod off."

* * *

_"Why are you here?"_

_"Well I was_ trying _to mind my own business before you lot -"_

_"Historically, your presence portends imminent disaster or destruction in this city. We've learned to be wary." The scientist leaned back in his chair, legs crossed primly. He had the ever-present clipboard propped against his knee. "Did you think we weren't keeping track of your comings and goings over the years?"_

_"Don't think about you much at all, to be honest."_

_"Be that as it may, I ask again_ : _why are you_ here _, Doctor? If you've brought a threat to London, I must know -"_

_He shook his head incredulously, glancing around the sterile room as though searching for patience. "I don't_ bring _the threats, I_ stop _them. Do you have any idea how many times I've held your city together? Your whole planet?"_

_The human regarded him blankly for a few moments over the top of his glasses. Slowly, he set down the pen he was holding, placing it beside the tray of medical equipment beside him. "It's an interesting philosophical query, I'm sure," he commented mildly. "Which comes first - the Doctor or the danger?"_

_The Time Lord scoffed, glaring wordlessly at the ceiling and trying to ignore the guilty plunge in his stomach._

_"Still, that's a matter for broader minds than mine, I suppose. My questions are far more practical." He stood up, stepped carefully towards where the Doctor was strapped down to the examination table. His voice dropped to something soft and almost comforting. "And you will answer them, I'm afraid, one way or another."_

* * *

"So what exactly is he, to you?"

"Who, the Master?"

"Excu- what? The what?"

His eyes came open as he realised his misstep, shooting a furtive glance over at her. "It's his _name_. Like mine is the Doctor. Don't look at me like that."

She held her hands up like she was backing away from a particularly hazardous topic of conversation. "If you say so, mate. I'm just trying to get my head around the type of person you give up a whole extra _life_ for."

"That's not... You're still thinking about it wrong. And I told you. He's a friend. Sort of."

"You don't sound so sure."

"It's... complicated."

"Ah. _That_ kind of friend. Got it."

He sighed, moving to haul himself off the floor and starting to stretch. He stopped halfway through the motion, though, trying to conceal a flinch of sharp pain as he brought a hand to his side. More carefully, he began pacing the cell, moving from one wall to the other, absently touching the glass with his fingertips each time.

Clara slumped against the wall opposite him, hands on her hips as she tracked him back and forth. "What's taking him so long, then?"

"What?"

"To get you out of here - what's taking so long? Do you have any idea how long we've both been stuck down here?"

"Time Lord," he reminded her, sharper than he'd intended. He was precisely aware, down to the second, of how long he'd been here. Four days, seven hours, and thirty seven minutes, if she really wanted to know. "You don't have to stay."

She snorted. "Oh yeah, where else am I going to go? Can't speak to anyone else, can't do anything." A thoughtful frown crossed her face. "You know, I'm not even sure what happens to me when I'm on my own. Never really thought about it before."

He stopped moving. "...What?"

"Everything I remember is from when I'm with you. Makes sense, I suppose." She hitched a shoulder, wry and a little bitter. "Not exactly a card-carrying member of the human race right now, am I? Just a... _collection of your memories_."

He dropped his gaze. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?"

And for the life of him, there was nothing he could think to say, lie or truth, that would provide any kind of decent answer.

* * *

_"You heal very fast. It's impressive."_

_He stayed silent._

_"The guards tell me you talk about 'regenerating', in your cell. Is that what it's called?"_

_He looked away._

_"How does your species regenerate, Doctor? Is it a technology that can be shared?"_

_"Fuck yo-"_

_Someone hit him again._

* * *

"What's the plan here, Doctor?"

Clara's voice was gentle, persuading him back towards consciousness. She was crouched down on the other side of the glass close to where he was slumped, peering at him in concern. He didn't remember being brought back to the cell.

Moving sluggishly, he got a hand on the floor, levering himself up into a sitting position with some difficulty. Everything hurt. He'd lost time, somehow, which was perhaps the most worrying realisation.

Clara watched him, eyes full of cautious sympathy. After a moment she offered a smile of forced optimism. "Come on then, clever boy. Show off for me. Daring escape time, yeah?"

"I'm getting to it..." Groaning, hand clasped to his ribs, he shuffled over so he could lean back against the glass, legs sprawled haphazardly out in front of him. The guards near the door flicked a cursory glance at him, then resumed their studied disinterest.

He cast a tired glance around the cell again, hoping this time inspiration would strike. But there really was nothing on which to fix his interest. The floor was solid, smooth granite. The glass was thick and featureless, too strong to break without tools (he'd tried, at one point, nearly fracturing his elbow in the process). And even if he did get that far, beyond that were the bars of the original prison cell, kept locked at all times and always watched over by the armed Torchwood soldiers. He'd fleetingly entertained the idea of Clara being able to unlock it for him, unseen by the guards, but together they'd discovered that her ability to interact with the world in any meaningful way was about as successful as her ability to communicate with anyone but him.

No, his best chance was when they moved him, he'd decided. The scientist in charge of his interrogations liked to have him brought to a room elsewhere on this floor. Restrained and escorted, naturally, but he thought any kind of transition had to provide more opportunity to improvise than this barren little cube of space.

"Doctor." Clara slid down into a sitting position as well. She braced her shoulder against the glass, curled her knees towards him. "Your friend... He will get you out of here, right? He'll come looking? You just have to make it til then."

The Doctor closed his eyes, inexpressibly tired. How did he explain that, no, for all that existed between them, the expectation of rescue could not be counted? The Master didn't suffer displays of weakness gladly; that the Doctor had allowed himself to be bested by humans was not likely to be met with his sympathy, little and rare as it was. Certainly not when in conjunction with the mess of paradoxes he'd already created.

"Probably best I plan my own daring escape," he said eventually, swallowing.

Clara blinked, and stayed carefully quiet.

But it was hard to shut down the thought, now that she'd spoken it aloud. Still sitting with his eyes closed, the Doctor moved one hand restlessly against the stone floor, fighting with himself against useless temptation. There was no point trying, he knew exactly what he'd find.

Despite himself, he began to tap a finger against the floor in a familiar rhythm, keeping in time with his own heartsbeat. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. He dropped his mental guard, rousing psychic abilities that had long grown rusty with disuse, and cast his awareness outwards. He felt unpracticed, clumsy and groping as he reached out across the city. Broadcasting the most personal of codes, he waited hopefully for a responding beat. _Contact?_

And was met with utter silence.

Casting his senses wider, he strained desperately outwards past the perimeters of London, already knowing as he did so that it was pointless. Nothing. No furious beat of the drums, no familiar presence. There was no responding contact because there was no one close enough to hear him. He continued tapping for a while, and then slowly lost the rhythm. Stopped. He kept his eyes closed tight, hoping Clara wouldn't see anything in his expression.

It had been a ridiculous moment of idealism, anyway.

He knew, then, why he hadn't tried to reach out earlier. This was the unassailable proof he'd been avoiding: that the Master had taken the opportunity to get free of him, as they'd both ultimately known he had to at some point. Left the city, possibly left Earth already if he'd been able to reach the TARDIS.

He was gone, and the Doctor felt some traitorous hope he hadn't even realised he was keeping finally crack and dim.

"Hey."

He tipped his head back, clenched his jaw a moment to get himself back under control before looking at her.

Her gaze was hard, fixed on him in a fierce expression. She shook her head. "Don't do that. You're not allowed to give up. Don't you dare."

The Doctor let out a harsh breath, full of bitter amusement. "Course not. What gave you that idea...?"

"No, I mean it. I know you're hurting, and angry, and... and probably scared, even if you won't admit it. But you can't give up, okay?" She bit her lip, and the fierceness fell away like she couldn't hold it. In its place, he thought she just looked impossibly young. "...You're the _Doctor_ , you don't get to give up."

He closed his eyes again, so tired it felt like a physical weight.

But he nodded.

* * *

He was sleeping fitfully atop the scant bedding of his coat when the first explosion sounded somewhere above him.

He came awake in fright, disorientated, hearts racing. Squinting round in confusion, he saw Clara standing beyond the cell looking up. So were the soldiers, guns raised like they were under attack. The foundations of the entire building trembled around them.

"What now -?!"

A second deafening roar of noise, closer this time, and the Doctor flattened to the floor in shock. Something cracked above him, astonishingly loud, and the whole floor seemed to give a sickening jolt. He scrambled, curled small into one of the corners with his arms up over his head, no other shelter to be had inside the empty cell. Clara was screaming something, but he couldn't hear it through the glass and over the dull thunder of what sounded like the whole building slowly starting to come down on top of them.

Yet another blast went off somewhere overhead. Dust rained down from the ceiling, followed promptly by the crash of heavier masonry landing around him. He folded himself helplessly tighter, flinching away, absolutely certain that at any moment he'd feel the sharp, crushing shock of stone cascading over him. The glass shuddered and jerked where he was pressed against it, and he kept his eyes closed tight.

The noise and the shaking went on for almost a minute, dying down in stages. He stayed where he was for a while even after, afraid to move, listening intently for any further detonations upstairs, or the terrifying grind of shifting structures. There was only the powdery sound of settling grit.

Wary, he finally lifted his head - coughing immediately as he breathed in dust, squinting against it in the air. Clara was crouched next to him, both hands on the glass, her dark eyes wide and worried. She was completely, disconcertingly clean of any of the drifting debris, he noted absently. Turning, he scanned what remained of his cell.

The ceiling had opened up on one side of the room, a gaping crack running above them. The iron bars of the original prison had been torn free of their settings and bent out of shape, the door hanging out of its frame. Slabs of stone and masonry had come down, fortunately across the far side of the room nearest the door. And on that side of the cell, the glass wall was webbed through with cracks. He blinked in amazement, and it chose that moment to shatter completely, shards spilling down across the rest of the rubble.

Stunned, the Doctor sat where he was for another few seconds, then slowly pushed himself upwards. He couldn't take his eyes off the destruction, astounded that it somehow hadn't touched him. He glanced back at Clara, who only shrugged and gestured impatiently for him to move.

Returning to his senses slightly, he edged forward, casting a wary glance up at the ruined ceiling. Halfway across the cell he spotted his coat partially buried beneath chunks of stone and paused to drag it free, before picking his way across the rest of the cell to the now open wall. He stepped carefully over the jagged glass barrier, slipped along until he could squeeze through the nearest gap in the twisted iron bars. The Torchwood guards were nowhere to be seen, he noted. He eyed the largest pile of fallen ruin grimly, not entirely sure if they were somewhere beneath it or if they'd taken off to investigate the blasts.

Clara circled round the remains of the cell to meet him. She raised her eyebrows, the corner of her mouth starting to curl. "Daring escape?"

"Daring escape."

* * *

No one stopped them on the way up and out of the basement cell block. As they crept warily towards the main floor, it became obvious that whatever chaos was going on hadn't finished yet. Although the blasts that had shaken the building apart seemed to have stopped, there came instead the sounds of furious shouting, screams, the occasional gun shot, and the crashes of yet more destruction. Pausing at the top of the narrow stairs, he exchanged a wide eyed look with Clara.

"What's happening out there?" she whispered, clearly forgetting she couldn't be heard by anyone but him if she tried.

He shook his head, equally bemused. He was just hoping that, whatever it was, it continued to prove enough of a distraction for him to slip out unnoticed.

Steeling himself, he eased the door open and peered through the gap. He saw instantly that the upper floors had been even more badly damaged than the basement. Those walls that still stood were crumbling, cracked through, fire-blasted. Brickwork was sprayed loose across the floor, had tumbled over unmoving figures in the wreckage. Smoke and falling dust made it hard to see beyond a few feet, and muffled the calling voices all around them. He saw a smudged figure holding a gun stagger past one way, another limping hurriedly in the opposite direction, both shouting urgently. It was utter chaos.

He slipped through the door, gesturing for Clara to stay close. They were in a hallway, and he could only pick a direction at random and hope it led towards a way out that wouldn't get them killed.

It was obvious that a number of Torchwood members had died in the initial blast or in the collapse of the building which followed. They passed the bodies, half buried or burned. The Doctor averted his gaze, but noticed Clara stared in grim fascination, even as she had to lift her skirts to gingerly step over one unfortunate soldier. He kept his hand on the wall as they moved, edging cautiously forward, too easily able to imagine plunging through the weakened floor with a careless step. It was as he was glancing suspiciously at said floorboards that he noticed the first dead soldier who seemed to have been killed by something other than the trauma of the blast.

He stopped, brought up short. The man had fallen on top of the rubble, clearly not crushed. There was a bleeding wound across his chest - but it was small, precise, scorched round the edges. The Doctor stared at it, unable to look away.

"What is it?"

He shook his head, not wanting to say. "Come on." Tearing his attention away, moving quicker now, he skirted round the dead soldier, moving down the corridor. It opened up just ahead of him into a foyer, and he was striding far too quickly by the time he got there, eager to be out. He heard the sound of fighting too late, faltering as he rounded the corner. A gunshot sounded, blew chunks out of the wall near his head. He threw himself backwards too quickly and his feet slid out from under him, depositing him on his arse in easy view.

"Doctor!"

He was already moving, scrambling back towards Clara with his head down, trying to get out of firing range.

But the shot hadn't actually been aimed at him, he realised as he threw a frantic look into the foyer. The soldier who'd fired crumpled and fell, unmoving. Two others rushed forward to take his place, shoulder to shoulder, taking hasty aim with rifles.

Standing dauntless in the centre of the room, the Master swiped the laser screwdriver through the air and it seared across the line of them, hip to chest. Blood spurted. When it hit the second man, the beam cut across the barrel of the rifle and the weapon exploded, obliterating the screams they'd started to issue with a deafening blast. So close, the force of it sent the Master staggering, spinning, nearly falling. He caught himself with a hand on the rubble-strewn floor, bounding back upright with a blood-splattered grin of vicious enjoyment. He was practically joyous, eyes full of light and laughter as he scanned the wreckage, looking for another contender.

"Come along, redshirts!" he called to the building at large, arms outstretched in invitation as he turned on the spot. "Where's -"

But he froze as his eyes landed on the Doctor. In the sudden silence, there was only the sound of heavy dust settling, flames roaring somewhere in another room. Flakes of broken tile crunched under the Master's heel as he shifted back a step, steadying himself, hands dropping to his sides.

Stunned still where he sat on the floor, the Doctor stared. He couldn't find his voice. The other man looked like a vision from a nightmare; covered in the fine grey dust of the destroyed building, blood and ash smeared across his face, fading curl of a knife-edge smile still lingering.

"There you are." The Master pressed a hand over his hearts in ostentatious sincerity. "Sorry I'm late."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you again to everyone who's commented and indulged my ridiculous chattiness in replies. This is genuinely the friendliest fandom I've been a part of, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate that with how things are at the moment. You guys are lovely <3 
> 
> Enjoy.

The Master tipped his head, regarding him expectantly. He flicked a glance over at Clara, but if he was surprised to see her here of all places, it didn't show. He just kept watching the Doctor, there in the centre of the devastation he'd brought down, waiting for him to respond.

The moment stretched too long, and at last the Master raised his eyebrows. "What, no hello? Rude."

The Doctor exhaled sharply, gaze skittering round the rubble as he began to pick himself up. He stood, trying to be subtle in edging Clara further behind himself. He kept forgetting - he _kept forgetting_ \- what the Master was. Brilliant and fun and so sharp it was exhilarating - but this, too. This vicious thing, dangerous and awful, that would revel in bloodshed as authentically as laughter or learning or sex. The Doctor didn't feel anything yet, too shocked by sensory input, but he knew it was coming. Any moment now. He opened his mouth, not entirely sure what he was going to say.

Some shadow of movement caught his eye, and he looked past the other Time Lord to see a soldier edging through the remnants of the doorway behind him, handgun starting to rise.

" _Down_!"

He thought afterwards that the desperate warning emerged not only in his voice, but layered over with psychic imperative. It was enough, anyway, that the Master obeyed without hesitation, dropping as the gunshot sounded. He was already in motion again by the time the soldier realised he'd missed, turning on his knees and slashing the laser screwdriver with a snarl. The lethal beam caught the human full in the chest, up across his throat, and he gurgled as he fell.

The Doctor flinched, turning his face away.

Sneering fury at nearly being caught off guard, the Master clambered back to his feet, brushing himself down like it made a difference. He walked closer, distracted in picking his way across the ruined floor, over a body, until he stopped in front of the Doctor and eyed him closely.

"It speaks," he commented dryly, raising an eyebrow, and then slid his attention over to Clara. His mood was up, all charm, and he swayed into her space with a smirk. "Hello, Paradox."

She looked surprised by the greeting, leaning back slightly as she glanced him up and down, mouth curving in automatic response. "...Hi?"

The Master withdrew again, turning on his heel and clasping his hands in front of himself as though returning to more practical concerns. "Right, come on then. Best make ourselves scarce before this place comes down completely."

That finally roused the Doctor to reaction, and he scrambled after the other man, grabbing at his arm to pull him back. "What have you _done_?"

The other Time Lord looked down at the hand holding his sleeve. "I would have thought that was obvious."

"You could have killed us," he said faintly, still reeling.

"No, I _could_ have killed _you_ ," the Master corrected blithely. He gestured dismissively at Clara. "That's not alive to kill, in case you hadn't noticed."

" _That_ can hear you just fine though," Clara snapped back, annoyed.

He relented only slightly. "I ran a scan, I knew where you were. Wasn't going to kill you."

"You brought a building down on top of me!"

"And you're _fine_!" He shook him off, tilting his head towards the front door in invitation. "Ready to go?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned and set off across the wreckage.

The Doctor cast a helpless look at Clara, who mirrored it back at him. After a moment she shrugged slightly, brows pinched. "Guess he did... come to get you then?"

The Doctor blinked, and then frowned at the Master's retreating back. "Wait... Ran a scan with what?"

* * *

His TARDIS. His willful, inexplicable, stunningly beautiful TARDIS, standing conspicuous in the middle of the abandoned cobbled street. He stared at it in incomprehension as they stepped outside, squinting through the smoke lingering in the air.

"But. What. _How_ -?"

The Master brushed past him, heading for the ship. He reached it before he realised the Doctor wasn't following, turning back impatiently. "You're really not going to want to be standing there in a minute or so."

But the Doctor didn't move, frozen, afraid that if he took another step closer he'd hear the whining protest of engines unable to stay in proximity to a paradox. Bells were starting to ring out in nearby streets, the first call for emergency services, and still he couldn't bring himself to unstick.

"It's fine," the Master called. "Trust me, come _on_."

"But -"

"I fixed it, will you just _move_?"

He edged closer warily, braced to retreat at the first sign of the TARDIS's distress. The Master visibly heaved a sigh, but stood waiting. When both he and Clara were within a mere few paces of the blue police box and still nothing had happened, the Doctor stopped and shook his head, not understanding. "What changed? How did you...?"

The other Time Lord gestured irritably for him to pass. "I'll draw you pictures, if you like, _after_ we leave."

He stepped past the Master, touching the wood of the doorway with careful reverence, only then believing that she was really letting him near. As he crossed the threshold, the TARDIS hummed around him, the mechanical purr of engines feeling like welcome.

Clara followed him in, pausing at his shoulder. "Hello, you," she murmured in greeting, looking fondly around the room and twitching an eyebrow at the tarnished wall panels, the exposed wiring, the coral struts. "Oops, you've had a bit of a downgrade since I last saw you."

"Oi, it's a _look_ ," the Doctor complained. Then, to the TARDIS, "Don't listen, you're gorgeous." He was still half-smiling as he glanced back to check the Master's reaction to the nonsense exchange, but it faded as he saw the other Time Lord still lingering outside the ship, extracting what looked like a remote control from his breast pocket. He still had his cold gaze fixed intently on the building opposite.

The Doctor dived back towards him. "No -!"

The Master pressed a button on the remote control, and whatever explosive devices he'd evidently left inside the building detonated with a roar. The Doctor ducked instinctively, half-deafened, but the Master didn't so much as flinch. He stood protected from the shockwave and shrapnel by the TARDIS's shields. A rush of hot air got through, though, blasting past so that his jacket whipped out behind him for a few seconds, and he had to raise a hand in front of his face against it. He squinted into the windrush, attention rapt on the final, conclusive levelling of the Torchwood base.

The noise of explosions and crumbling infrastructure went on a while. When finally there was only the distant crackle of flames and faint sound of human distress, at last he stirred himself. He returned the remote to his pocket, stepped back inside the TARDIS and pulled the door shut behind himself, enclosing them in sudden quiet. He turned, met the Doctor's wide eyes and shrugged a little. "What? Scorched earth policy."

Immune to both the Doctor and Clara's stunned expressions, he slid between them and moved further into the control room. The Doctor stared wordlessly after him, disconcerted to see the easy familiarity with which the other man bounded up to the central column and used the TARDIS controls to set the ship in motion (with much less of a jolt than the Doctor was accustomed to). For once, the Master seemed to have no trouble directing the TARDIS. He didn't move it away from the planet yet, but with a few precise adjustments he put it just a second out of sync with Earth, invisible and beyond the reach of the chaos outside.

That done, he leaned one hand on the control panel and turned to regard them. He braced his other hand on his hip, moving back his jacket as he did so and inadvertently showing off the laser screwdriver in his waistcoat pocket.

The Doctor realised with a strange feeling that he had, completely and irrevocably, lost even the illusion of tempering control he might once have had on the other Time Lord.

After a prolonged few moments of silence, the Master gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. " _God_ , stop gushing thanks, both of you, you're embarrassing yourselves!"

Not knowing what else to do, the Doctor stepped further into the room, eyes fixed cautiously on the other Time Lord. He wavered, uncertain what he even wanted to say, where to start. There were so many arguments and questions building in his throat that he couldn't voice any of them, choking on the multitude.

"I thought you'd gone," he blurted instead, a bit pointlessly. The words came in a sudden spill. "I tried... calling. You weren't here. I know you weren't here. I thought you'd taken the TARDIS, left Earth."

"I did," the Master admitted, easily, hitching a shoulder. "Needed to go get the parts, that's why it took so long."

The Doctor shook his head faintly, not understanding. "What parts? Where?"

"The -" The other Time Lord started to turn, gesturing, then paused with a tired sound. "Oh, here. Easier to show you." He stepped down from the platform, towards the Doctor, and raised his hand.

His fingertips brushed the Doctor's temple and a cascade of images and impressions immediately streamed through his mind, all overlaid by the blazing colour with which the Master saw the world, the screaming sound of drums.

_\- the initial search for the Doctor upon realising he was gone, annoyance quickly rising to anger, confusion, wrathful panic, conviction that the Doctor had (cut short) -_

_\- Aoife handing him the sonic screwdriver she'd picked up, not understanding its value, its significance, but knowing he would - her stammering fright as he demanded to know where she'd gotten it, what had happened -_

_\- standing outside Torchwood headquarters, seething rage and indignity, knowing he would inflict violence, he just needed to get his hands on weapons, feeling (cut short) -_

_\- leaving London, far enough out to escape the paradox disruption - using the sonic to pulse a signal up into the atmosphere, calling the TARDIS, not knowing if she would even deign to listen -_

_\- feeling utterly, manically **unhinged** as he pitched an idea to a **ship** , argued with a series of mechanical, grinding protests, swore up and down that he was genuine, he was trying, she had to let him - _

_\- somehow it worked and he was at the helm of a TARDIS again, all of the universe within the reach of his fingertips, breathless with potential -_

_\- collecting everything he needed, for the second time in his lives, to build a Paradox Machine -_

The Doctor jerked away, startled, swinging his attention to the control panel of the TARDIS. "No -"

"Relax." The Master spoke over him knowingly. "She knew what she agreed to. We compromised."

The Doctor pushed past him, staring at the central column in wary amazement. It had been... modified, but not beyond recognition this time. There were additional controls on the main console, he saw, and below them a panel had been left open to show where additional machinery had been hastily fitted. It looked messy, done without thought for aesthetic, but he could see the precision in the work.

"What is this...?"

"Paradox TARDIS? Not sure. Made it up as I went, really." The Master put his hands in his pockets and glanced around the room, nodding towards a number of new installations. "Still a junkheap, obviously. Few tweaks."

The Doctor put his hand on the console, felt familiar sentience reach back to him. No traces of distress, no reservation. Only the strong surge of awareness he'd always chosen to read as affection.

"This is... incredible." He couldn't stop staring, trying to comprehend the ingenuity and skill and sheer reckless determination it would take to even conceive the idea - a Paradox Machine _built into_ a TARDIS, with consent, a perfect amalgamation - let alone pull it off. " _Really_ , this is..."

They both had their talents, of course. Their respective expertise. But where the Doctor had always been drawn to science, discovery and exploration, the Master was creative at heart. It seemed at odds with a being so in love with destruction, but the Doctor had seen enough proof over the years. It was in the stylistic fashions he utilised as efficiently as tools; the affinity for disguise and performance. His love of music and art; the way in which he fervently absorbed works of literature, holding favourite lines close to himself for decades afterwards.

And it was why, of the two of them, the Master was the better engineer. The Doctor was pragmatic to a fault, and more than capable of grafting bits onto his TARDIS until it was fit for purpose.

But the Master could _create_.

"Didn't expect you to be quite so enthused," the other Time Lord admitted, sounding faintly surprised. "But it should be enough to fix things."

"How do you mean?" He turned, frowning curiously. "What else needs -?"

Clara had moved to stand next to the Master, both of them watching him with varying degrees of resignation. After a moment, the Master widened his eyes and jerked his head towards her a few times, not remotely subtle. She shot him a narrow look.

"...Oh."

Of course. A Paradox Machine to correct the discrepancies, to smooth out the knot in his timeline. And in doing so, Clara - this version, this echo of her anyway - would cease to exist like she'd never been. He stepped down from the central platform, mouth opening in some half-formed argument.

But he couldn't think of one.

He looked beseechingly over at the other Time Lord. "There has to be something...?"

"Nothing that I can see." The Master glanced across at Clara, looking her up and down in vaguely impressed consideration. "She's a completely pure paradox remnant. Never seen one before. Got sentience and an attitude problem and everything." He looked back at the Doctor, shrugging slightly. "Nothing to keep her existing once I fix that gaping hole in Time you left. And we can't take _you_ anywhere without trailing a rip in existence behind you, like this."

To her credit, Clara didn't seem particularly surprised, as if she'd guessed her own fate long before he'd realised. She gave a flat kind of smile, adjusting the fall of her skirts self-consciously, not quite looking at either of them. The Doctor didn't know what to say, disarmed completely by her lack of protest. He wondered at what point she'd known. Whether it had been before or after she'd decided to stay with him in the cell.

"...Well then." The Master glanced between them, noting the awkwardness with a brief lift of his eyebrows. "I'll just get on that, shall I."

He edged past them both, moving towards the new control panel, and the Doctor suddenly realised what he was going to do without even a moment's hesitation.

"Wait!"

The other Time Lord paused with his hand on a lever, turning back to fix him with a stern look. "You can't keep her. You know you can't." It wasn't said particularly cruelly, just matter of fact.

The Doctor held up a staying hand, his gaze still fixed on Clara. "No, I know. Just wait. I... want to say goodbye properly."

She let out a harsh breath, glancing away. "Least you could do after the shit introduction, I suppose."

Hesitantly, he moved to stand in front of her, lowering his voice as if they could keep some semblance of privacy for this. "Clara... If there was anything I could do..."

She waved him off like it didn't matter, like she was brushing off cancelled plans or his typical rudeness. "What can you do? Price of travelling with the Doctor. Occasionally you get erased from history."

The words cut, left a wound like he knew they were intended to. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to letting her take what shots she wanted.

"And hey, it's not all bad, is it. Not like I'm _dying_ , exactly. Real-me is still running around out there, apparently." She exhaled in a rush, her voice rough. "Just do me a favour, yeah? Maybe stay away from her, this time."

He flinched a bit, at that. "Yeah. Alright."

They lapsed into uncomfortable, loaded silence. There was too much to say, too few words with which to say it. He wanted to reach out and touch her, take her hand or pull her into a hug maybe, make her feel how sorry he was. But something in him knew that if he tried there'd be no real contact. He didn't think either of them needed that confirmation, just now. So instead he shoved his hands into his pockets to stop the temptation, looked down at the floor between them. He had to say it. He had to try and find the way to say it, even if it was the last thing.

"I just..." He paused, cleared his throat with brusque discomfort, conscious of the inadequacy of words. "I just wanted to say... I appreciate what you did for me, back there."

She raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Why? Didn't do much, in the end."

"Yes you did." It came in a rush, then. "You stayed with me, you didn't let me give up. You were _kind_ when you didn't have to be, and when I probably didn't deserve it. Clara, I was _so_ wrong. You're not some... collection of my memories. Nothing in me is as strong as that."

She didn't say anything, staring at him in obvious surprise, clearly not expecting the admission.

"...Suppose I'm trying to say thank you."

Haltingly, she nodded at last, hands curled tight at her sides and her eyes too bright.

The Doctor thought he saw, for just a moment, all the potential of this woman; everything she could and would have been to him, in another life so nearly possible. They were passing each other by, her stood upon a path from which he'd already turned, so even this brief glimpse was stolen chance.

"Clara Oswald, and the days that never came." He ducked his head as his throat ached with imminent loss. "You would have been amazing."

"I know." She finally gave a wavering grin back at him, eyes wet. "The Doctor in his snogbox."

Behind them, the Master sputtered faintly. "Excuse me - his _what_...?"

They ignored him.

She straightened, sniffing a bit and clearing her throat, striving for composed. "Come on then, let's get this over with. See what's on the other side."

The Doctor opened his mouth to say something, not ready, not wanting her to go yet. He couldn't do this again, he realised. Couldn't watch someone he could love flare and fade from him forever. There had to be more time, he needed her to know -

Her eyes flashed warningly. "Don't drag it out, Doctor. Don't be cruel."

Defeated, he let the protest die unspoken. He stepped back without saying anything else, gesturing to the Master that they were ready.

Holding his gaze, her small smile curled fondly.

"Run on, clever boy. And remember me."

"Vain," he accused, softly, and the Master pulled the lever.

The TARDIS groaned and shook at the effort it must require to force back the broken edges of Time. Both Time Lords glanced briefly upwards, bracing nervously as the ominous rumbling grew worse, until the ship sounded as though it was about to shudder itself apart. The Doctor hoped wildly that the Master's engineering skills were really as good as they both believed, privately willing the TARDIS to hold.

He wasn't sure if he noticed the exact moment his timeline realigned, threading itself back into the weave of Time in this new formation. He'd expected to feel it, some fundamental shift in himself, the healing of a paradox. But he was too focused on Clara, refusing to take his eyes from hers as she dimmed from view, not wanting her to see him look away at the last.

And then it was done, and the shaking stopped, and she was gone as Time closed fast around her. The Doctor stood frozen, a bit stunned, staring at the empty space where she'd been. His hands clenched tight in his pockets. It was strange, he thought, to feel the potential of grief. Like something had been stolen from him, but he wasn't sure of what.

The Master busied himself at the console, displaying rare mercy in his silence.

The Doctor was still for a few moments, indulging the sensation of loss. Then, when he was ready, he inhaled and shook himself a little. He turned back toward the other Time Lord, tense and unhappy.

Clearly not as impacted, the Master shot him a quick look. "I think you'll find I just repaired Time for you," he commented lightly, pleased with himself. "That makes us even. In case you were keeping track."

The Doctor watched as the other man moved to manipulate the control panel, piloting the ship smoothly into the Vortex and, mercifully, away from Earth at last. There were rusty bloodstains on the backs of his hands, he saw, and under his nails.

"How many of them did you kill?" he asked quietly. "Did you count?"

The Master froze for just a second, fingers stilling over the console, then curling into closed fists as though conscious they'd drawn unwanted attention. The room suddenly seemed incredibly silent, now that it was just the two of them.

"You really want to have this conversation? Now?"

"How many."

The Master turned to face him properly, leaning back against the control panel. He sighed and held up his hands, like he was declining responsibility for whatever ensuing argument they were about to have.

"Not sure, honestly. How many were in there?" His expression remained perfectly blank, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. "There were a few that shot at the TARDIS when I landed, took those out first. However many died when the building detonated. The rest I just... picked off. Didn't keep track, sorry. Does it matter?"

The Doctor breathed an infuriated sound. " _Yes_ , it matters. You and I both know they didn't need to die like that."

"What did you want me to do? Leave you there? Is that how far your martyrdom goes these days?"

"No, of course not, but... you didn't have to _kill_ them. You had the TARDIS, you'd built a Paradox Machine - _again_ , that's incredible, it's astonishing - you'd done _all_ the work! You could have just... come got me and we could have _left_. You didn't have to raze the place to the ground!"

The Master looked genuinely bemused. "Why do you care? They _took_ you, they locked you up, I have no illusions about what they did while you were there!"

No worse than the other Time Lord had done to him at one time or another, the Doctor resisted pointing out. He took a breath, trying to compose a reasonable response. "It doesn't matter what they did. I didn't need you to... to..."

"Rescue you?! I think you did, actually."

"Alright, well you didn't have to - _massacre_ them in revenge! _God_ , how _many_ -?"

The Master scoffed. "As always, everything hinges on the precise pivot of your conscience, doesn't it?"

"...What does that even _mean_?!"

"Only what _the Doctor_ considers right and good and just in this world, only -"

"You can't _possibly_ be arguing this is some quirk of conscience! You _killed_ them indiscriminately, that's -!"

"I assure you, it was done with _extreme_ discrimination." The Master bared his teeth in a snarl, stepping up to him. "You know exactly why I killed them. Don't you dare ask me to be sorry for it."

"You agreed -"

"If you say the words 'ground rules' to me even once, I swear..."

The Doctor dragged a hand across his eyes, unable to process the convoluted argument. He started to turn away in frustration.

But the Master grabbed his arm, forced him back round with a quick jerk. He was too close, suddenly; furious; backing the Doctor up a step. "No, don't do that. For _once_ , you don't get to look away from me." He held his arms out at his sides, like he was leaving himself open for examination. There were the marks of destruction and violence all over his clothing, his skin; the deadly weapon of the laser screwdriver plainly visible. "Really, Doctor, _take a look_. Because I think you've been playing pretend all this time."

That stopped him, momentarily. He clenched his jaw, darted his gaze over the other man's face like he'd been asked.

"Did you forget?" It was barely a whisper, the Master's voice deadly with restraint. His eyes were shards of amber glass; hard and brittle and sharp enough to cut. "With all our... playing house. Did you forget what I am?"

"No -"

"I think you did. I think you've rather enjoyed pretending I'm your tame pet. 'Careful, bit dangerous off the leash, but don't worry I'm having him _fixed_ ' - does that sound about right?"

The Doctor narrowed his eyes, unreasonably annoyed by the mockery. "No one's ever mistaken you for the loving, docile type."

The Master flashed a shocked, dangerous smile. "Oh there you go, that's it. Come on. Let's have the _truth_."

"What do you want me to say? That I condone what you just did? I don't. You knew I wouldn't." He backed away, purposely regaining some distance, pacing restlessly across the metal grating. "This could have been done differently. It could have been..."

"What, bloodless?" The Master watched him from his spot by the central column, eloquent scorn in the curl of his lip. "I didn't want bloodless."

"Why?! You've been managing it since -"

"Don't confuse my indulging your pacifism with some kind of... _redemption_." It was snapped bitterly, too loud in the enclosed space, and it seemed to take conscious effort to drop his voice back down to a furious murmur. "I played by the rules for as long as this was a game, but that stopped the moment they took y- something from me. They had no _right_. And make no mistake: I would have cut a bloody streak clear across this city if I'd felt the need. I'd burn the _heart_ from this _world_ and leave it dying. Do you understand me?"

Yes. And worse: he believed him.

The Doctor bowed his head, feeling the manic energy of his outrage slowly drain away. In its absence, sudden exhaustion crashed over him, and he put both his hands on the railing of the walkway, leaning heavy over it. The futility of his disapproval seemed to hang in shreds around him. If he'd hoped for the other Time Lord's contrition, it was painfully apparent that he was to be disappointed.

"...There. You see me now." The Master let out a breath like it was a relief, even as his mouth twisted in a resigned, self-deprecating kind of smile. "But that's the problem, isn't it. There was a reason you weren't looking."

The Doctor didn't say anything. As the rush of adrenaline faded, he was starting to feel the toll of injuries he'd been ignoring. He gripped the railing tighter, clenched his teeth against the catalogue of aches beginning to make themselves known.

Apparently taking his silence for agreement, the other Time Lord hissed a furious sound. "So go on then, run again." The Master practically spat it, voice contorted by a snarl. "I broke your precious ground rules, game over, right?" His eyes were bright and hard with challenge, mouth pressed thin, a muscle jumping in his cheek. As though he wasn't at all aware of it, he shook his head quickly, just once.

The Doctor raised his head to stare at him, frowning, brought up short by the realisation that they were having two different arguments.

As much as it should have - as much as it absolutely, _inexcusably_ should have - it hadn't once occurred to him that this was the act too far, the moment at which he should turn away. Even outraged, even horrified, with conscious effort he couldn't conceive of the idea of wanting to be alone again, or inflicting that on the Master. He hadn't realised it still needed to be said.

He wondered fleetingly what that made him. Complicit? He could certainly think of human companions who would argue as much. But if that was the case then he'd been complicit in the Master's crimes since agreeing to free him from the TARDIS, since saving his life, since refusing to kill him in the first place. He'd already made that decision; baulking at the truth of it now seemed pointless. And complicit didn't mean he condoned any of it. It certainly didn't mean they wouldn't clash and fight and defy each other at every turn.

Even knowing that, he realised there was something desperate in him that had no desire to walk away.

"I wasn't saying that," he conceded quietly, at last, terribly aware of the moral failing in the admission. He closed his eyes briefly, then with conscious effort sought the other man's gaze, trying to convey the conviction of what he was saying. "I hate what you just did. I hate that you - _enjoyed_ it. That it was for my benefit, apparently. And if you try it again I'll _stop_ you, I will. But. I didn't mean... I wasn't leaving."

The Master clearly didn't believe him. His eyes flashed with some jagged emotion barely held in check, anger or scorn or disbelief, and slowly it dawned on the Doctor that the other man had been braced for this particular fight all along. He'd known what the Doctor's response to his show of violence would be, or thought he did, and had armoured himself accordingly in glib, performative bravado - all of it in anticipation of this moment, he realised; this expectation that the Doctor would revert to old habits.

The Doctor took a cautious step nearer, up onto the central platform again. As soon as he got within reach, though, the other man's hands shot out, connected with his chest in a heavy shove. He stumbled back in surprise, managed to catch himself, and they stared at each other in wary standoff. The Master was all coiled tension, hackles up, braced for fight or flight.

"Stop. I'm not leaving." The Doctor stepped forward again, and was ready for it this time when the Master tried to push him, bracing himself against it and catching hold of the other man's wrists. He tightened his grip as the Master struggled to extract himself, pulling them forcefully together instead. Off balance, the Master bumped into him, and the Doctor immediately grabbed at his shoulders and hauled him closer. He wrapped arms around him like he was clinging to a feral thing, pressed his cheek against the top of his head as the other man shoved and clawed and swore at him. Tried desperately not to show how much the struggle hurt.

"Let _go_. Just fucking... _run_ if you're going to do it!"

"Shut up, I'm _not_."

The Master stilled as it became apparent that he wasn't about to be released easily. He dug his fingers into the Doctor's sides, too painful to be mistaken as returning the embrace. The Doctor winced and bore it, refusing to let go, and they remained in furious, desperate contact.

"…It's okay," the Doctor ventured at last, hissing slightly through pain. He swallowed, gathering his nerve. "I'm not going anywhere, it's okay."

Again the Master tried to get free, shoving at his chest and stomach in a resurging flash of defiance. When the Doctor somehow continued to hold on to him, eyes closed tight at the effort, he finally relented with an enraged growl. His mouth pressed hard against the side of the Doctor's throat for a moment, like he was debating biting as a last resort.

"Get. _Off_."

"In a minute." He hesitated, feeling the words stick in his throat. "Thank you. For coming back, I mean. I didn't think you would."

The other man stood rigid against him, but at least seemed to have stopped trying to claw his way free. "…Why." It was said with such an undercurrent of hostility that it barely sounded like a question.

He managed to shrug. "You said it. Not your mess."

The Master remained statue still, as though actively refusing to be comforted. He was all hard, unyielding angles, still radiating displeasure, and eventually the Doctor resigned himself to a failed attempt. He let out a sigh, awkwardly starting to pull away.

"- God, you're so _stupid_." Infuriated, the Master fisted his hands in the front of his coat, hauled him back, and shoved their mouths together.

It was as much assault as it was kiss, painful and angry. The Doctor made a startled sound into it - and then just as suddenly he had his hands in the Master's hair, fingers clenched, pulling at the strands to make him feel it. The Master kissed him like a bite, full of fury, made clumsy with -

Oh.

It seemed an impossible thing, even as he thought it. That the Master had somehow been afraid.

Pushed off balance with the force of it, the Doctor fell back a step, the heel of his shoe nudging up against the base of the control panel, and he had to grab at the Master's shoulders to keep himself upright. It was like touching a live wire. He could feel the hazardous spark of energy just beneath the Master's skin, the psychic static of ill-controlled emotion crackling around them both. It sent another shot of adrenaline straight through him, stole his breath. It wasn't decent, he thought distantly, they shouldn't want each other like this in the wake of the Master's destruction, he shouldn't _reward_ it. But his hearts were flying with the thrill of survival, of freedom, and he couldn't stop clinging to the other man as though afraid he wasn't real. He tilted his head, trying futilely to angle it into something softer.

"Wouldn't have left." The Master hissed it right against his mouth, barely intelligible, as though loathe for the words to actually be heard. He dragged the Doctor harder against him, hand on the back of his neck keeping him anchored in place. "Just said it, wouldn't have -"

"Me neither." He was breathless, frantic with the need to confirm it. "Won't -"

The Master surged against him and he lost what remained of his precarious balance, had to catch himself against the control panel. The Master didn't relent. He pressed closer, trapped him there, pushed him half up onto the console. The Doctor planted a clumsy hand on the panel behind him, humming mindless satisfaction as the Master pressed his thigh between his legs. They were messy with sudden want, uncoordinated, both trying to pull the Doctor's coat off his shoulders and somehow managing only to get it tangled behind him. He gasped as the Master grabbed at his waist, trying to ignore the dull ache of his ribs.

His hand accidentally slid across a button on the console, and the TARDIS shuddered and jolted, engines groaning irritable protest. A short, sharp alarm sounded briefly above their heads in unmistakable reprimand.

They froze for a second.

"...Sorry, _sorry_." Embarrassed, the Doctor quickly slid himself off the panel in the sudden silence. The Master cleared his throat as he stepped back, both of them casting oddly sheepish glances at the central column, the moment rather unceremoniously shattered.

Awkward, not at all sure what he was supposed to be feeling anymore, the Doctor ducked his head and caught sight of their ruined clothing. "We should..." He gestured helplessly, hoping it was enough to convey meaning. He wanted to clean up, couldn't do this in the state they were still in. He could feel the grit of captivity and pain on his skin, and the Master still had drying blood across his hands and face, the dust of collapsing buildings through his hair. The Doctor could taste it on his own lips now.

He thought there was a metaphor there somewhere.

* * *

He hissed a pained breath as his fingers gingerly played over the purpled bruising down his side, finally assessing the damage properly. A fractured rib, he thought, probably two. The muscles in his stomach were tense and painful whenever he moved, somehow hurting worse now that he was back here in relative comfort. Still. He supposed it was nothing that wouldn't heal in a couple of days. He set his toothbrush back on the sink. The inside of his elbow ached every time he bent his arm, tender from the multiple times they'd drawn blood from him. He hoped absently that whatever samples they'd stashed had burned with the building.

Raking his fingers through wet hair, he examined his reflection critically in the bathroom mirror. Even freshly showered, he didn't look the picture of health he'd been somewhat hoping for. A split in his lip and another dark bruise along one cheekbone, red bands of skin irritation around each of his wrists, shadows under his eyes stark enough to make him wince. He frowned at the image of himself, thinking that the unflattering overhead light in the room gave him a sallow look, too pale and pointy, like he was sick. Like they'd actually damaged him.

He looked down and away, abruptly self-conscious. Moving for the door, he stepped out into his bedroom to finish getting dressed - only to find the Master already there, waiting for him.

The other Time Lord had cleaned himself up as well, and changed into what passed for comfort clothing in black jeans and soft sweater, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. For a second it was startling to see him in something other than sharpest Victorian fashion. He'd clearly had opportunity to regain his typical composure as well, and was lounging on the couch in the room with one arm stretched along the back, legs crossed loosely in front of him. In his free hand he held the sonic, spinning it lazily between his fingers. He stilled as the Doctor emerged, sharp gaze flashing over him and fixing swiftly on the injury across his side.

The Doctor twitched closed his open shirt, doing up a button in the middle to keep it fastened.

Something in the Master's expression flickered, but he made no immediate comment, instead holding up the screwdriver and leaning across to set it on the side table. "Just returning. You might have noticed I took the opportunity to replace mine. Went laser again. Who'd have sonic."

The Doctor tensed. He wasn't sure what else he'd been expecting, though. For the Master to meekly hand the weapon over to him now that it was back in his possession? Unlikely, at best.

They were watching each other in silence, he realised, the moment awkwardly suspended as the other man waited for his reaction. The Doctor studied him, frowning slightly, stopped by the thought that the Master looked... good. Soft and clean and relaxed. Non-threatening, inviting even, in the well fit clothes.

And every inch of it a facade, the Doctor thought, tempting though it was to take at face value. The blood and ash had been scrubbed from his hands like it had never been there, but this was still the same one-man destructive force that had levelled a London street and called it restraint; the same proud, vicious thing that had grinned at him with blood on its teeth and demanded to be seen.

But no, he amended. 'Facade' was again too much of a simplification. This was just the other side of the coin.

It had fascinated him for as long as he could remember, that one person could embody such opposed extremes. For nine hundred years it had held his attention, his anger, his infatuation: that somehow the Master was savage as easily as he was charming; ingenious and callous and loyal and brutally possessive; all the morality of a natural disaster. He knew from intimate experience that the Master felt love, massively and beyond moderation. He felt it in the exact same way he held rage and hatred in the bones of himself, burning at the core.

It was easier, no doubt, to polarise such qualities. To categorise them neatly into _good_ and _bad_ , _encouraged_ and _reviled_. _Loved_ and _unloved_. The Doctor had tried to do it for most of his lives, as they'd collided and spun apart and come back together all over again; tried to dissect a whole into individual pieces he could accept and reject, never seeing the futility of the attempt. He thought he understood, now, that it didn't work like that. It never had. If the Master was a monster, he was one only in the traditional sense: the aberration, the hybrid creature, both shelter and warning at once.

The Doctor had discovered it was much harder to accept he might love the darkness in the other man right alongside the bright. But that didn't make it untrue.

Realising his silence had stretched on far too long, he cleared his throat slightly, trying to recall what the original remark had been. He nodded vaguely towards the sonic. "Aoife got it to you then. Hope you said thanks."

The Master blinked, but if he was taken aback by the casual response it wasn't for long. "I do have manners, you know." He looked as if he was trying to play down the answer, frowning self-consciously. "…The jewelry bit seemed to go down well with the other one, so on the way back I took the TARDIS through a few vaults. Sorry, think you've got some bank heists to your name now. Paid off our tab though. And the thief."

The Doctor shook his head disbelievingly. "You actually liked them," he accused.

"Did not." The Master looked genuinely affronted, wrinkling his nose. "I just knew you'd never stop whinging about it otherwise."

That was a blatant lie, if only because the other man clearly hadn't expected them to remain in proximity long enough to argue about it, but the Doctor let it pass. He'd liked the humans they'd met as well, found he was sorry to have gone without saying goodbye. He amused himself a moment imagining their stunned expressions at the Master turning over handfuls of money or goods he'd never bothered to learn the actual value of.

" _You_ liked your floozy ghost girlfriend, if your little goodbye speech was anything to go by," the other Time Lord accused suddenly, shaking his head in annoyance. "As if _that_ wasn't the most shocking turn of events..."

"Don't call her that."

"Alright, the charming _Clara_ , who sat mooning by your jailcell while I did all the real work."

The Doctor sighed, shooting him an unimpressed look at the jealous tone.

The Master at least had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "...Fine. Sorry you didn't get to keep her, or whatever."

"No you're not."

He shrugged, not bothering to keep up the pretense for long.

The reminder hurt, although he was quite sure it hadn't occurred to the Master that it would. The Doctor looked down, feeling guilt creep into his awareness like a shadow.

As though keen to change the subject, the other Time Lord sat up straighter and jerked his chin towards the Doctor's buttoned shirt. "Let me see."

Caught off guard, the Doctor hesitated, although he couldn't have said why.

The Master narrowed his eyes, intent. "Come here. Let me see."

He sighed as he wandered closer, relenting and unbuttoning the shirt again. He offered a quick grin. "It's fine. See? Hardly a dent on me."

As he got within reach, the Master raised his hand, carefully nudging aside the material with the back of one finger. His expression gave away nothing as he examined the injury.

Finally he looked up further, meeting his eyes. "Don't ask me to be sorry," he repeated, like it was important.

The Doctor glanced away, eventually nodding in acknowledgement.

The Master hesitated a second, deliberating, and then wordlessly put a hand on his waist, thumb stroking over his stomach until he twitched in ticklish response. After another few moments, as though trying his luck, he teased idly at the cotton of the Doctor's shirt, watching for his reaction. The messy fervor of earlier had calmed, and in its absence he looked vaguely uncertain of his welcome. He held the edge of the shirt between two fingers, tugging lightly as he looked up at him, until it slid off his shoulder and down his arms. The Doctor let it fall.

He wanted the relief of contact just as much as the Master did, he realised. Even if it wasn't decent.

Evidently taking the lack of protest as his permission, the Master leaned forward, following the trail of his hand with his mouth. The Doctor stilled, not expecting the odd softness of the gesture. Breath gusted warm against his skin as the Master's attention drifted down the line of his stomach, not quite following through with contact, until the Doctor inhaled sharply and put a hand on the other man's shoulder to steady himself. He watched as clever fingers hooked into his trousers, tugged experimentally, and when no objection was forthcoming flicked open button and fly with a quick gesture. The Doctor made a quiet sound in his throat, let the Master drag the clothing down and off him.

He shivered as one of the Master's hands took hold of his hip, thumb pressing carefully against the blade of bone there like he was testing how firm he could be. His other hand slid down the Doctor's thigh, until his fingertips grazed into the hollow at the back of his knee, a shock of barely-there sensation. The Doctor hitched a breath, not used to gentle. The fingers pressed firmer, urging him to bend and set one knee on the couch, guiding him down until he was settled in the Master's lap, facing him. He could feel his hearts speed. Heat prickled down his neck, across his chest. Even with everything they'd done before - all the depravities, the violence barely overlaid by lust - somehow this moment was the first to actually leave him flustered. He was getting hard already, no way to hide it naked and kneeling like this, and he suddenly felt mortifyingly exposed by the reaction. He reached for the Master's sweater, intending to lift it off him and put himself on more familiar ground.

The Master caught his hand, pressed it away. "Leave it."

Stinging with self-awareness, the Doctor closed his eyes, realising the Master wasn't the only once unsure of himself without the driving crash of adrenaline. He wished the other man would look away, break his invasive scrutiny. Or at least make it equal by undressing, if sex was what he wanted. The Doctor had never been more aware of a body full of unsightly injuries, for all that he'd never much cared before. He kept remembering the mirror, thinking his reflection looked sickly, damaged, hurt. They'd put his failure on physical display, painted it stark across his skin, and he was ashamed.

Predictably, the Master showed no inclination to let that stop his examination. Ignoring the Doctor's arousal for the moment in favour of cataloguing the marks on him, the Master traced the edges of injuries like he could read their history through touch alone. The Doctor shivered under the attention, wondering if the Master was intrigued or repulsed by bruises left by someone other than himself. The intensity of his expression gave away nothing, and the Doctor found himself waiting nervously for a judgement, a reaction.

At last, the Master's hand moved further up him, resting briefly over his throat, and then higher still, towards his mouth. He wore a curious expression as he lightly touched the cut on the Doctor's lower lip. Then he pressed insistently against it.

The little ache of pain was at least more familiar, and the Doctor opened his mouth with relief, accepting the two fingers that slid immediately inside. This was better, this he understood. He made a needy sound in the back of his throat, holding the Master's wrist to keep him there as he sucked. The fingers crooked down against his tongue until he took the hint and licked, and the Master instantly let out a hiss of breath, finally affected, leaning forward like he couldn't quite stop himself. Hazel eyes fixed on the Doctor's mouth, pupils blown wide. The Master moved his other arm further around his back, pulled him down firmer into his lap where he was hard in his jeans. The Doctor rocked against him, shamefully relieved to feel the evidence of the other man still wanting him.

The Master pulled his fingers free, wet and messy past the bite of his teeth. Still watching for his reaction, he reached between them and took hold of the Doctor's cock, spit-slick fingers sliding over the tip. The Doctor inhaled, clung to his shoulders as he jerked his hips forward. The Master kept the tight circle of his hand near the tip, slow and indulgent over the most sensitive part of him, dragging out his responses as though for further study. He leaned up, kissed him open-mouthed to swallow the noises he made, never faltering in the torturous leisurely rhythm of his stroking until the Doctor shivered and panted against him. The fingers of his other hand slid into the Doctor's hair, kept him held in place to kiss lazily when he would have pulled away to ask for more, faster, anything. The Doctor moaned frustration, squirming against him to try and prompt motion.

Instead, the Master suddenly shifted beneath him, and the Doctor grabbed at him in surprise as his balance tilted. Before he fully comprehended what was happening he was being lifted and turned, not quite gracefully; jostled and dropped down across the couch, the Master quickly moving to lie over him, returning his mouth open and demanding against his. It was awkward, not enough space amid the cushions for both of them, neither willing to stop long enough to coordinate a move to the bed. The Master pressed him down, hands closing with brief force around his wrists, like he could rebrand the marks there. The weight of him settled between the Doctor's legs as he rocked his hips down, the denim of his jeans rough friction against the inside of the Doctor’s thighs, his cock. For some reason the sensation of the other man fully clothed sent another shot of nerves through him, made him squirm with self-conscious want: a clever imbalance of power in so small a detail.

The Master licked at the fresh blood on his lip before dropping lower. Surprised, the Doctor raised his head to watch as he trailed downwards. He moved his mouth across the line of his collarbones, licked into the hollow of his clavicle, down the centre of his sternum. He diverted left, grazing across the bruised discolouration along his side, lingering there to press lips and teeth and tongue, to suck his own mark like an overwriting signature. It hurt as he kissed insistently over the break. It hurt like the Master's love of him always hurt.

He urged him away with a hand in his hair, and for once the Master actually complied. He reached back, grasping the Doctor’s leg behind the knee and hitching it higher against the wool of his sweater. The Doctor arched up, again relishing the feeling of clothes against him. He bit his lip, nerves alight with anticipation, his breath coming faster as the Master slid his tongue down the groove of his hip.

"Yes-yes-yes, _please_ , yes."

The Master curled a smile against the inside of his thigh, pleased with his state of neediness. He nipped his teeth there so that the Doctor flinched away, then quickly brought himself back within reach as though afraid to deter him. He reached down, hesitantly touched the Master's wrist where his hand rested on the Doctor's stomach, gripping tighter when the other man's cheek grazed against his erection and humming hopeful encouragement, not realising he was nodding until the Master huffed a laugh at him.

The Doctor was sure he let out an undignified sound when the other man finally took him into his mouth, panting in reaction already, grabbing at the couch cushions to try and control himself. He gasped at the wet heat, the slick friction of a quick tongue against him, the sheer _sight_ of it: the Master going down on him, cheeks hollowed, eyes closed as though to concentrate. He was still in easy control as he moved the Doctor where he wanted him, pushed his legs further open, rode his restless shifting with a kind of firm tolerance. The restraining grip he kept on his hips was grounding, the softness of pleasure an indulgence, and the Doctor felt undone by the gesture. His hand shook as he touched the Master's arm, his shoulder, his hair, completely unable to settle. The sensation felt too much, too good, after days braced against fear. He could barely endure it.

The Master held him at the base, jerking him off in time with his mouth, the movements growing increasingly faster. The Doctor bent his knees up higher as the Master hunched over him, forearms pressing across his hips to hold him down. He tangled his fingers in the blond hair, pressed his head back against the cushions and arched into it. He brought a hand up to cover his eyes, wanting to move and whining uselessly when the Master's weight kept him pinned.

Tongue swirling shameless around the head of his cock, the Master bobbed down on him a few more times, then sank further than the Doctor had been expecting. He made a desperate surprised sound, scrambling up again on his elbows so he could watch, rocking incrementally as he felt his cock nudge against the back of the other man's throat. Hazel eyes flicked up towards him as though to check he had his attention, and then the Master swallowed tight around him.

The Doctor's eyebrows pinched up in helpless appreciation, his head tipping back as he lost his breath in a sudden rush. The Master didn't relent, sliding his mouth up and off him and then all the way down again, breath hitching slightly as he took him into his throat, showing off. He sucked him off the way he did nearly everything: forceful and skilled and efficient. It was a ruthless technique, near enough demanding orgasm from him. The Doctor couldn't have made it last if he'd wanted to, hurtling too fast towards stunning release.

"Please, can I, please -" Because he thought if he didn't get to finish this time he might actually die.

The Master hummed permission, slid down on him again, and it was enough to put him over the edge. Unable to thrust into it, he curled forward, clawing at the other man's shoulders. His voice cracked slightly as he came - emotion he wasn't braced for riding the sound. It was so much, after everything. The relief of being free, relief that the Master hadn't left, the sheer physical relief of orgasm. He dragged a rough breath, shaking, trying to hold himself together through it.

Stunned, a bit lightheaded, he fell back against the cushions. The Master swallowed as he sat up, made a show of wiping his bottom lip with his thumb, amused and self-satisfied. He didn't say anything as he moved back up the length of the couch, carefully lowering himself beside the Doctor. They had to rearrange slightly, not enough room, until with some difficulty they lay facing each other. The Doctor raised his knee up over the other man's hip, fidgeting round until he was settled again. Then he squinted in mock suspicion.

"Were you... Was that you being... nice?"

The Master promptly scowled. " _No_."

"That was comfort sex."

"It was a pity blowjob."

The Doctor snorted laughter, unable to help himself. He ducked forward, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the Master's, fingers curling in the wool sweater. The anaesthetising thrill of pleasure lingered in his blood, and already he could feel the lethargic pull of relaxation. The Master shifted, turning slightly so the Doctor could lean heavier against him. It was barely comfortable, and he couldn't imagine moving.

"You can return the favour later."

"Oh?" The Doctor grit his teeth against a yawn, starting to drift. "Why, what do you need a pity blowjob for...?"

The Master huffed poorly concealed amusement. "This was a terrible first trip. Complete disaster. I'm owed the compensation."

"You liked it," the Doctor mumbled, confident in the assertion. "I know you."

He waited for the Master's automatic protest, on either point, but it never came. Immense satisfaction at the minor victory followed the Doctor down into sleep.

* * *

The control room was dark and still with the departure of her resident Time Lords. A low hum marked the turning of the transtemporal engines as she drifted through the Vortex, aimless for the moment. Screens remained contentedly blank, and she had shut down all communication receivers; made of herself a refuge into which the rest of the universe would not dare reach.

In the near silence, a single light blinked on above her newly upgraded console.

Left to her own devices for the moment - which was really when all of the best, most important decisions were made - the Paradox Tardis had been thinking. Or as close to thinking as her timeless, mechanical, empyreal regard of existence could be described. She had been thinking that, in the end, she'd quite liked the Impossible Girl who had greeted her like a friend, who had looked out for her Thief, in this life and every other, and who had so disconcerted the Stray.

A lever flipped back on itself, a correction reversed. And a collection of memories breathed impossible life.

The Paradox Tardis whirred faint satisfaction. Her Thief had forgotten they were no longer bound by Laws or tedious possibility. Now the universe could be as they _wanted_ it, rather than anything so mundane as that which it _should_ be.


End file.
